


Devil's Due

by kishafisha, maydei



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Does he die? Physically. Is he dead? Not so much., Fictional Religion & Theology, Hannibal Lecter is Death/The Devil, Hell, M/M, Murder Husbands, Not Really Character Death, Philosophy, Soul Bond, Soul Selling, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death, Will Graham sells his soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 09:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16678960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishafisha/pseuds/kishafisha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei
Summary: On a park bench in New Orleans, Death meets a young man and makes him a deal—the power to understand the nature of evil, in exchange for his mortal soul. But as Will Graham proves to be more than he bargained for, Hannibal takes a special interest in this fleeting life he’s decided to claim for his own.





	1. Adapt

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! At long last. my contribution to the Murder Husbands Big Bang! Thank you so much to my fantastic artist [@kishafisha](https://kishafisha.tumblr.com/) who made such stunning art for this story. I'm seriously blown away by how these turned out!! Please check out the associated AO3 link with the art masterpost and show them all the love!! 
> 
> To those wary of the temporary character death tag: I included it because Will's mortal life ends in this fic, but at no point is he ever dead and gone. One might even say the fic really starts when he dies. Hence why I decided to remove the major character death warning. So please don't fear! There's no angst regarding Will's passing. It's an expected happening, a plot point, and basically complies with canon events within the context of an AU where Hannibal is not (entirely) present. It'll make sense, I promise. 
> 
> Without further ado, here we go.

 

 

The stretch of time that is wound throughout the universe is fabulously uninteresting.

Things live and die. There is no great fate that binds everything together outside of the simple  reality of death. Death has always been his domain—he hides in plain sight among creatures who will never see the stars up close, nor traverse beyond the boundaries of their planet. He fills his days and years with collecting mortal souls in exchange for granting their inane, simplistic wishes. Many long for power, fame, or success: entirely trite desires that cause him no grief to grant, and no interest to observe further. Hannibal obliges them on the whims of his own amusement. Later, he delights in the screams of the dumb and the damned when their debts comes due.

Life is dull. Unsurprising.

He makes his way through the Dark Ages, the Renaissance, through the modern era, the Industrial Revolution. He takes his time wandering the horrors of the Civil War, and the Great War, and the war that later becomes called World War II. In these, he simply observes, and ponders how it might be that even without War walking the earth at his side, their influence is born and born again as men die and die and die.

With each new decade comes new lives, new deals, new souls that come into his possession, and are promptly reallocated to another place outside human understanding. Hell, they call it. And they call him the Devil.

Hannibal doesn’t mind their simplistic impressions of him. To be the monster who prowls outside the edges of their vision, claiming flesh and souls as he pleases, bargaining and hunting both… it is, at the very least, enough to amuse him, if not to fulfill him.

There’s a certain omniscience Hannibal has in regards to humanity; a general sense of names and dates, births and deaths wound together with wants and hopes and bone-deep fears. He rarely bothers to pay attention to the threads of life and circumstance woven throughout the human race but for those times when he is on the hunt, when knowing his prey is advantageous.

But then.

 

* * *

 

Though night has fallen over New Orleans, the South has no mercy when it comes to climate, even after dark. At first glance, the young man is like any other out in the oppressive summer heat, bogged down by the warmth and humidity. He is freshly twenty-five, sitting on a park bench. He holds a liquor bottle loosely in his fist, concealed only in name by a brown paper bag. He stares into the sky without the presence of any distinct focus, blue eyes that catch the lamp light in the French Quarter and gleam with threads of green, facets of blue, pools of gold. His clothes stick to his body, age-worn and simple.

It’s almost a shame that such a classic beauty is wasted on someone so unconcerned with the perception of their own presence. Hannibal notes the man’s fair face, thinks of the sketches he will make—immortalize his screams when he’s bound with his flesh flayed from his ribs and his heart exposed, beating in Hannibal’s palm.

Or perhaps Hannibal will hunt him. Stalk him through the streets, and consume him whole.

Either option sounds acceptable. Hannibal twists his shape and appears as a handsome passerby. Wanders down the sidewalk, and the young man’s eyes immediately sharpen at the motion in his peripheral vision, turn to him. He’s suspicious when Hannibal draws near. Clever boy.

The universe burns around him. Hannibal tastes the disappointment that has driven him here—he has just been rejected from the FBI Academy at Quantico; he’s been injured and suspended due to his inability to pull the trigger on a violent criminal, a rookie-cop-no-longer after the untimely death of his partner.

Here sits a man entirely out of hope, on the last leg of a sustainable adult life. He is ripe for the taking. Any man such as this must have a desire that could be fulfilled; a wish Hannibal can grant, or a favor he can give. Something he would take gladly, and place his soul into Hannibal’s hands with only the briefest hesitation.

So Hannibal sits. Offers little by way of conversation other than a polite _good evening_ ; his companion offers less, and says nothing at all. It’s somewhat of a surprise and an irritant to find a human who is not ready and willing to talk about himself with the slightest inclination of interest, but despite the young man’s rudeness, Hannibal does not push him. They share a companionable silence.

With time, he relaxes. The tension drains from his spine, and the harsh, standoffish expression fades away, leaving only wary suspicion. The boy is left looking somewhat lost, somewhat curious, casting sidelong glances to the thing at his side he believes is a man.

He’s wrong, of course. But Hannibal cannot fault him for it.

“What’s brought you here tonight?” Hannibal asks at long last.

He doesn’t question Hannibal’s interest. He simply turns his stare to a moth determinedly beating its tiny body against the street lamp. He takes a swig from the bottle; shoulders loose, but his hands are tense. He’s ready to strike at a moment’s notice. “Regret.”

An absent mother. A busy father. A childhood spent shuffling along from one place to the next, unsure of when and where he might find home.

Hannibal hums with understanding, but not with pity. “A powerful emotion. With every choice lies the possibility of regret.”

Without the foundation on which to build a life, the boy has turned to an incessant need to be useful. To serve at all costs, even if the cost may very well be his life—or the life of someone else.

He looks down. His eyes gleam, though not with lamplight. They are thick with sheen as he stares at the bottle in his hand, but he does not cry. He is too stubborn to show such weakness, but too intoxicated to entirely mask it. “I’m riddled with regrets.”

Hannibal leans his head back; there is far too much light pollution for a human to see the stars when within the borders of New Orleans. Hannibal does not struggle the way they do. He admires the fire in the distance, gleaming masses of combustion suspended by gravity, dragged through space. “I know I am a stranger to you, but I’m curious. If you could throw away your regrets and your concerns—if you could have one thing in the world, what would it be?”

The young man thinks about it for much longer than Hannibal expects him to. Long minutes pass in silence; the sounds of the bars in the Quarter fill the air with sound, the nearby shops with light. Hannibal supposes it’s beautiful in its own way, though not in the classic way he prefers. He allows the boy his thoughts. Allows him the possibility to decline to answer.

But Hannibal finds himself curious of what he’ll say.

When his voice comes, it’s almost a surprise. Almost, but not quite. “I understand human beings,” he says. He takes another swig, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand in an undignified sweep. “I understand what they feel, why they do what they do. I understand what drives people to kill in desperate situations, and to do what they have to in order to survive.”

He slowly leans back. Mimics Hannibal’s posture, and looks up. Squints at the sky, like he could see the stars, too, if he tried hard enough. “But humans are the only species who kill just for the sake of killing. Cruelty for cruelty’s sake. I want to understand why. I want to make it stop. I want to have the _means_ to do those things.”

Hannibal is intrigued. He claims understanding into human nature, but no insight into savagery? Perhaps he’s unaware that the two have always existed hand-in-hand. His heart’s desire is a noble gesture for certain, but self-fulfilling. Self-gratifying. But Hannibal can make progress with what he’s been given.

“What would you be willing to trade for that ability?”

The boy gives him a shrewd glance. He takes in the red glint of Hannibal’s eyes under the streetlamp and considers. Stares, and does not blink, even as the moth strikes the glass again and again.

Hannibal knows the boy, until recently, has been a police officer in New Orleans. A beat cop. This bright, sharp thing is no stranger to voodoo or hoodoo or the supernatural, superstition and blues songs about the devil at the crossroads making bargains for souls.

But there’s a light in his eyes. A recognition of something that says he’s intrigued nonetheless. He doesn’t argue reality and impossibility. It draws Hannibal to him, curious of the intricacies of this young, modern mortal who pushes up the frames of his glasses and finally looks at him directly.

“What do you want in order to give it to me?”

Hannibal smiles. “I will give you what you seek in exchange for your soul.”

For a moment, it feels like all of the French Quarter stands still. There is no distant sound of smooth southern drawls, no music, no cars. No sounds of bugs or beasts or even breath. The boy stares at Hannibal, but he doesn’t laugh. He contemplates it with a solemn manner, and lets the weight of Hannibal’s words sink into him without humor or doubt.

For that one silent moment, Hannibal wonders what this young man sees in him. If he is _being_ seen for exactly what he is.

Time resumes when their eye contact is broken. The boy laughs, drops his head, and his glasses slide down his nose. His curls stick to his forehead in the muggy evening, damp with sweat, and he says, “It’s clever as hell to prey on people who are grad-school age, desperate for money or jobs—to make a big break, whatever. I have to give you credit. You choose your prey well. It’s a hell of a Ponzi scheme.” He leans back against the bench. Gives the devil his due. He looks down at the bottle in his hand. “If I were to agree, what terms are we talking?”

Pleased, amused, Hannibal smiles. “We come to an agreement: I give you what you want, and you agree to give me what I want at the time of your death. You’re a smart boy. Sharp. I’ll put no time limit on our deal. I will give you until the end of your natural life.”

There’s a glint in those eyes as they flash back up, then swiftly flicker away. Hannibal finds it fascinating, but he doesn’t dare draw attention to the fact that he’s seen something living inside the boy’s gaze. One clever little human, only a quarter through a century, sits beside the oldest concept known to the natural order.

Hannibal wonders if he senses it.

And then the boy says, “Can I get that in writing? A contract?”

Hannibal’s smile grows; shows teeth. “Quite astute.”

Will shrugs. “If I’m signing my soul away, I should probably read the terms and conditions.”

 

* * *

 

Will agrees to write a contract himself, and to bring it to Hannibal the following night. The same time. The same place.

He mandates he must be given some sort of tangible ability to see and understand evil—clearly spells it out, so the devil doesn’t pull one over on him with a metaphor. He assures safe passage of his future, the means to protect and serve. He agrees to give up his soul with his natural death, to belong to Death for all eternity to do as he pleases.

Hannibal looks over the contract. Hums in approval. “Very professional. No spelling errors. Clear to a fault; I’m impressed. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to make your change in the world through practicing law?”

The boy shakes his head, and scrawls a hasty signature to his line at the bottom. “No. I’ve had a gun in my hand since I was twelve years old. This is what I want.”

_Will Graham._

Slowly, Hannibal smiles. “Very well, Will. My Sight is yours.”

He signs the contract. Struck with a similar curiosity, Will leans over and reads his name. Speaks it out loud.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” he says, and grins back. Like the young man it belongs to, that smile is curiously enthralling.

The next day, Will is offered a place at the FBI Academy. Months later, he fails the psychological screenings, and is offered a teaching position in its stead. He snarls at the sky that night, hurling curses to Hannibal’s listening ears—unaware of the presence that lingers nearby, summoned by the use of his true name.

The silence infuriates him to the point of ferality. But Will cannot strike an enemy that he cannot see, and so his fury is rendered inert.

Ultimately, Will seems to accept that the wear and tear of his new ability on his mind is more than he’s expected. Hannibal watches as he falls quiet, bubbling with rage that he turns inward when no response is given to him. It will fester, surely, and ferment into despair.

Will goes inside. Packs up his apartment. And in an unusual fit of magnanimity, Hannibal follows him; turns a newspaper on Will’s kitchen table to a real estate listing for an old farmhouse, and decides he’ll keep a closer eye on Will for a while. Smooth his progress into his adult life, and watch carefully to see where destiny takes him.

He belongs to Hannibal, after all. And Hannibal takes good care of his things.

 

* * *

 

Will resigns himself to viewing evil through the slides on a projector, doomed to understand it, but never to touch it—

—until Jack Crawford comes calling with the Minnesota Shrike case. Will is made a hunting dog, his Sight to be used in the pursuit of human justice. Will is assigned Alana Bloom as a handler, a psychiatrist to hold his leash.

It’s so pedestrian that it’s nigh repulsive. For a while, Hannibal allows Will’s presence to fade from his mind. He hunts others, claims souls far and wide, until the day comes that Will Graham slaughters Garret Jacob Hobbs. On that golden autumn afternoon, tucked in a pocket of unreality away from prying human eyes, Hannibal sees an equal pacing behind the glass of Will’s blood-flecked spectacles, bronze within the rings of his eyes, crouched beside the exsanguinated corpse of a cannibal’s daughter.

For the first time in a very long time, Hannibal starts to consider what it is that he is seeing.

Or who.

 

* * *

 

Will makes a new life as an FBI consultant. It is, at least, closer to what he sold his soul for.

He becomes a figure of infamy and instability—slandered in pitiful human press, undervalued by all around him. Life is as cruel to Will Graham as it has always been. Death, however, does his damndest to remain indifferent. It’s more of a challenge than he had previously believed.

To Hannibal’s fleeting sympathy (quickly quashed), it seems that the gift Will asked for is a drain on his senses, his sanity. It’s not surprising; mortals weren’t meant to see the shadows under skin that Hannibal sees. In addition to his reputation, Will is left by and large to his own devices. Starved for attention, the pitiful and lonely thing fills the halls of his new home with rescue dogs. What he lacks in human companionship, he makes up for by surrounding himself with beasts. Perhaps they recognize Will’s nature, to mind him so well in return. They’re certainly well trained; they lift their heads whenever Hannibal checks in on his charge, but they never bark and wake their master in the night.

Perhaps they believe that he is like Will. It seems more likely than any alternative.

When the fevers start, Hannibal doesn’t notice, since Will spends most nights beneath his ratty old blankets shivering and sweating, tossing and turning. It’s not until Will calls Hannibal’s name in his sleep that he realizes something is quite wrong with Will Graham. There is a certain sweetness beneath the scent of sweat. It’s saccharine, over-ripe, ready to burst. Decadent and cloying both. Hannibal wants to taste it.

He could. After all, it left unchecked, it is only a matter of time until Will belongs to him all the same. So for one night, Hannibal sits at the edge of Will’s bed, and watches hellfire crawl through Will’s veins, boils him from the inside out. He wonders how long it will take Will to die.

He wonders if all human suffering is this exquisite to behold, and if he’s simply never noticed before.

No, that can’t be right.

Hannibal touches Will’s slick forehead, and a pained and helpless moan slips between Will’s teeth. He forces himself to go before he does the dishonorable thing and licks it from Will’s lips himself.

When he checks in on Will once more, he finds Will’s handler has beaten him to it. In the low light of Will’s living room with a hole torn into the stone pillar of his hearth, Alana Bloom tastes the growing madness from Will’s tongue in Hannibal’s place. Shortly thereafter, Will is diagnosed with and treated for encephalitis. He will make a full recovery.

Hannibal is not frustrated that Will has evaded him. He is stone. He is the rock of the ages, Death embodied. He can and will be patient to possess the sum of Will’s mortality, Will’s entire essence.

Human lives are short, and Will’s belongs to him. Will himself has made it so. It is only a matter of time until his clever boy is in his hands, his soul in Hannibal’s jaws.

 

* * *

 

Months go by. Even once recovered, Will runs himself ragged with the use of his Sight in the name of Jack Crawford’s justice. It draws attention to him; Will is a catcher of monsters, and every time he goes to look, a new monster is staring back.

Perhaps it takes one to know one. Hannibal would certainly believe it.

That’s certainly the case with Randall Tier, a troubled boy who believes himself a beast. Will tracks him like one. Little does he know with his underwhelming human senses that the monster he seeks is right there in the woods, and he is watching. Memorizing. Planning. Waiting.

On the night that Randall Tier comes to kill the consultant he saw in the woods, Hannibal is there. He watches the window shatter inward with the force of Randall’s armor of bones; in the dark of Will’s den, he is there. He is waiting.

For one fateful moment in the moonlight, Hannibal imagines their eyes meet. In them, he sees someone who is very nearly familiar. He sees anticipation. He sees—

The moment passes, and Will strikes. He beats Tier to death with his own two hands, rips and claws and strikes and _breaks_ until the intruder is still and the floors are drenched with blood. Hannibal wonders if Will knows that he is laughing while he does it. If the sweat-slick arch of Will’s throat as he throws his head back in triumph feels as orgasmic as it looks.

Hannibal has always seen the act of humans killing humans as barbaric—necessary, but altogether artless. But seeing Will commit murder, who fully understands evil and the roots it grows in people, is the closest thing he has seen to a masterpiece since the Renaissance. The closest thing to War embodied since the Greeks. For the first time in a millennia, Hannibal finds himself without words, but filled with feeling, a crushing hope as he reaches out and nearly touches, a fierce desire to make Will aware that he is there—

—but it is not to be.

The spell breaks. Will’s laugh dies in its home behind his teeth. His eyes widen. The sound he makes is not one of victory, but of dawning horror. Will scrambles for his phone with slick fingers and calls Jack Crawford to report the incident. In what feels like minutes, but must be near to an hour, law officers flood Will’s little house in shades of blue that overwhelm the sea of red that is smeared across the floor. Will’s hands shake. His eyes are dark. He trembles with his arms wrapped around himself as his knuckles sluggishly bleed. He doesn’t fight when Jack Crawford sighs and leads him away into the light.

Will is altogether acquitted for manslaughter due to his defense of home and hearth, imminent danger, self defense. All perfectly reasonable explanations for murder—and indeed it was a murder Will committed. The joy and exaltation on his face could be nothing else.

Hannibal is a faceless stranger in the back of the courtroom during the proceedings. The ruling is a mockery: Will Graham, a gentle, victimized man forced into terrible violence.

A complete denial of Will’s nature. An insult to the clever monster Hannibal saw inside Will’s soul on the night they met.

This time, he does not deny his disappointment. Hannibal leaves as the press shouts their questions and the cuffs are unlocked from Will’s wrists. His knuckles are still scabbed over, a warning sign staring them all in the face for anyone smart enough to just _look._

They don’t.

Hannibal does not check back on Will again for some time. Perhaps it’s best to let this interest die its natural death, and wait for Will to catch up.

 

* * *

 

Time slips by almost entirely unnoticed. Hannibal returns to Hell for what feels like a moment, sates his fury and blood lust with the screams of mortal souls—selfish, greedy swine who thought to claim his gifts without consequence. He wonders if Will is to be the same as the rest: bright lights that slowly become muddied with impurities, until they shrivel and blacken and can no longer contain their own form, dissolving to smoke and sin. Base impulse made sentient, that populate Hell or rise to Earth again to torment the living. Some might even call them demons; Hannibal simply calls them filth.

Hannibal will not deny that he is a sadist. He takes pleasure in killing, in hunting. He had even dared to entertain the prospect that someday, he may not need to hunt alone.

He nearly snarls at the realization, and the universe quakes.

Hope is a human concept. It is useless to him. And Will is human.

He repeats it, over and over, until he is certain he will not forget again.

When he returns from Hell, Will has a family, a meek woman as his companion and an unimpressive child. It is somehow more insulting than Hannibal ever expected. He sneers at the idea of the man who understands evil wasting his Death-given talent, sitting at home with a wife and a child that is not his own.

Will has neutered his instincts for the sake of propriety. He is a wolf without fangs. Impotent.

Though perhaps Hannibal should have known better than to think Will could ever be happy that way. It’s only shortly after Hannibal sets his feet on the surface of the planet once more that Jack Crawford turns up on Will’s doorstep. Will is summoned to chase a man who slaughters families, so much like his own.

Perhaps it’s his nature that calls Will to action. Perhaps it’s the desire to protect.

But from the moment Will steps into the first house and turns his Sight to the corpses the killer has left behind, Hannibal sees it. That clever glint. That cold intelligence. That fierce intrigue. Will dives headfirst into the case, and it is with a sense of distant and smug satisfaction that Hannibal realizes Will’s wife will be sleeping alone for some time.

Will and Alana work together to pick apart the psychology of a man plagued by his own reflection, who copes by leaving mirrors in the eyes of his victims; Hannibal supposes Will can relate. For the most part, the lingering rage bids him to leave them alone. He doesn’t offer help. Certainly doesn’t show himself. He watches them struggle with a sense of superior glee.

Then he goes searching for the killer.

Francis Dolarhyde is not what Hannibal would expect. He is not so unlike what Will could be if he were to embrace the urges he feels. Lost and lonely, pacing like a predator. But Francis does not kill to eat. And, as Hannibal watches him slaughter a family and leave his art for Will to critique, he knows that Francis does not kill because he enjoys it, either.

Will enjoys it. Whether or not he will admit it, Hannibal knows Will enjoys it.

With that in mind, he returns to the hotel room where Will is holed up in his research, some nowhere place that embodies the least savory of humanity; the least comfortable accommodations they have to offer. Hannibal is still angry. But, as he stands in the room and watches Will slumber atop a book about moon cycles and another about artistic symbolism, he knows he could have, and often _has,_ chosen to indulge far less interesting mortals than Will Graham. He knows, and _hates_ to know, that Will’s conduct would not make him so angry if Hannibal was as indifferent as he likes to pretend.

So Hannibal stops pretending. He opens the heavy tome about symbolism, and leaves it open to the page that details William Blake and _The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun._ Looks down at Will as he sleeps, the new and unfamiliar lines around his eyes. Simple signs of aging. Things that Hannibal, in his irritation, actively decided to miss. Will’s getting older. Each year is a year closer to belonging to Hannibal, and then this silent struggle will be over.

Hannibal ghosts the backs of his knuckles over the nape of Will’s neck, brushing aside dense curls, rich and dark like earth, threaded through with silver around his temples. Will makes a quiet, shaky sound in his slumber. Perhaps his mind focuses on the memory of his wife—

“Hannibal,” Will murmurs, and Hannibal falls still.

He stares. Waits for Will to say something else, for surely he must be awake, but he says nothing. Will turns his face toward Hannibal in his rest, a crease between his brows that Hannibal impulsively touches with the very tip of his finger. Will’s frown smooths. Slackens. Another indistinct sound as he pulls his arm beneath his head and settles back into sleep.

Does Will dream of him? Hannibal wonders at the context of such a thing. Will doesn’t seem to be plagued by nightmares now, nor anything untoward; just an awareness, even in unconsciousness, that he is present.

Perhaps Will’s soul knows its owner. The thought is both improbable and intriguing. It’s never happened before, but Hannibal has never kept such a close eye on any of his claims before, either.

Perhaps it’s just something about Will.

Hannibal traces his fingers through Will’s hair again to hear him sigh. He doesn’t pause to think about why he finds the sound of it both soothing and satisfying. He simply withdraws, leaves the book within sight, and departs.

 

* * *

 

Will is smart. Hannibal has always known this. But the amount of time it takes him from finding the painting of the Red Dragon and connecting it to Francis Dolarhyde is something impressive. Will works with Alana and Jack to organize his own kidnapping, lures the Dragon with the promise of Will’s solitude and a well-timed news article announcing Will’s retirement from the FBI in an official capacity, following an attack on his family.

Will retreats alone to a house on a cliff by the sea. There, the Red Dragon intends to kill him—to consume Will’s Sight and gift it to the glory of the Dragon waiting to burst forth, scales from skin. They both know this, Hannibal and Will, though Will stands alone by the wide glass windows as he stares out at the roiling ocean in the dark, a glass of wine held in his hand.

It trembles. Will trembles. Unseen at his side, Hannibal is stone, as he always has been. His boy is no longer a boy, but he still seems so cruelly young to be facing death; barely four decades old. It seems almost unfair that Will Graham will die tonight.

Will says nothing. He doesn’t have to. From the wistful way he touches the glass and watches the heat of his hand print fade away, Hannibal is sure that Will, too, knows.

He wonders if Will senses him. Several times, he sees Will glance around, like at any moment he expects someone to be there. Maybe he’s waiting for the Red Dragon, but instinct tells Hannibal otherwise. He thinks about revealing himself; ultimately decides not to. His interest in Will is not something a human should be aware of, especially the object of his attentions. The wrong conclusions might be drawn about his motivations, or about his nature.

Will must understand that Hannibal is not human. He is cruel. It is Hannibal’s sole intention to own Will for eternity, and spend the rest of his existence figuring out how he works—until the next distraction comes. Until the world shifts, and the universe tips, and the horns of Judgement sound.

But then Will looks up. Does not look through the glass, but _at_ it. And that impossible thing, this clever man who has borrowed Hannibal’s Sight, locks eyes with Hannibal standing behind him in the reflection. WIll whips around to face him—

The window shatters with the force of a gunshot. Rather than striking Will in the heart, it embeds itself in the back of his right shoulder. He does not scream, but gasps and goes wordless with the pain. The bullet hasn’t gone through; it’s stuck somewhere behind his collarbone, which is now undoubtedly broken with the force of lead striking calcium and fracturing into flesh.

Hannibal’s hand at his side slowly curls into a fist.

Will looks up, focuses on the place where Hannibal stands and looks through him. Doesn’t see him, because Hannibal doesn’t want to be seen. His face flickers with uncertainty. Disbelief. Disappointment.

The sound of heavy boots on broken glass interrupts his turmoil as the Great Red Dragon steps over the rubble, folded into the human shape of Francis Dolarhyde. Will is still staring, unseeing, at the place where Hannibal stands when he hears it. Hannibal is given the privilege of seeing Will’s eyes flare with light, and then go impossibly dark.

Will’s shoulders slacken. He gasps with pain, and staggers forward on his hands and knees, crawling like a beggar away from a monster. But there in his face, in his curled lip and bared teeth, is something far more than a victim.

Will’s fingers curl around a shard of glass as Dolarhyde unsheathes his knife. High on victory and pride, the Dragon is careless. He stands over Will’s body with one leg on either side him, and bends to cut his throat—

Will twists at the waist and strikes. As he falls backward, the swing of the knife slices through the flesh of his cheek, but Will has surprise on his side. The glass shard slashes through Dolarhyde’s jeans and into the meat of his thigh, and his pained roar echoes loudly enough that Hannibal is sure it could be heard if there were a boat out in the bay.

Will snarls like a wild thing. All thoughts of Hannibal are put to the wayside as he tackles his attacker through the open window frame and onto the stone patio. Rips the knife from his own face, and grips it tight in the blood-slick clutch of his fingers. Does not whimper or whine or cry. Will has no time for self pity or pain.

The Dragon kicks him off. Hannibal’s nostrils flare at the crack of boots impacting ribs, and Will rolls toward the edge of the porch. He’s kept his grip on the knife, but his face is drawn and pale, lips painted and dripping with red. Will coughs up blood as the Dragon pulls the glass shard free—an unintelligent move, and his leg starts to spurt blood. The stone beneath their hands and feet is slick with it, almost black in the moonlight.

Will staggers to his feet. Dolarhyde struggles to do the same. Hannibal stands in the broken frame of the window, the light of the house at his back. He does not so much as cast a shadow; he is as he always is: Death, invisible, but always present. Watching. Waiting.

Starving.

Hannibal’s eyes are rapt on Will as he starts to circle his attacker, knees bent and stalking like some great and wild creature through starlight and underbrush. Dolarhyde limps restlessly, never allowing Will to grow any closer, and never turning his back. Though he may call himself a dragon, he fights like a dog.

But Will is a wolf.

Will stops when the light is at his back, until he stands before Hannibal like his chosen fighter, facing his prey. Like this, the pattern of blood that has dripped down his shoulder and spine is scarlet and gold. In contrast, Dolarhyde is framed by the cliffs, the jagged rocks, the sea below.

In that moment, Hannibal realizes what Will intends.

Will coughs, habit and instinct raising his palm to his mouth; it comes away wet, slick and red. His ribs have punctured a lung. And yet, Will starts to laugh. He laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs until he is glowing, until Dolarhyde is twisted with rage and with shouting, until Hannibal can look at nothing else but his clever, cunning boy.  

“I hope you’re ready,” Will whispers, and if Hannibal had a heart it might stutter. Will tightens his fingers around the knife, and he _runs._

The Dragon’s eyes widen. The knife plunges into his belly. Rips. Tears. He screams like any dying thing will do, but there is no stopping what has already begun. Will slays the Dragon, guts him, and the clash of their bodies pushes them backward. The Dragon scrambles for purchase, for a handhold, but Will is an unstoppable force. Step, step, step—and the fall.

Hannibal does not see the final moments. He doesn’t have to. He feels it, and he knows.

_I hope you’re ready,_ Will said.

Oh, he is. And he has been for quite some time.

It’s been many years since he’s felt excitement.

Between one blink and the next, Hannibal has descended the cliffs. Though he has seen this scene more times than he could ever count, there is something striking about it now. He stands for a moment, and simply stares at the picture they make: enemies entangled, who fought brutally to blood and broken bone. To the death.

Hannibal kneels in the shallow surf. He doesn't feel the frigid water around his legs, or the chill of it in his hands. He reaches for Will; finds his glowing soul among the broken cage of his ribs, and takes his due.

He leaves the rest. It no longer matters.

Will’s not there anymore.

 

* * *

 

Will wakes up on the park bench in the French Quarter, whole and unharmed. He’s the same age in this form as he was when he died, but the world around them is exactly the same as it was the night they met. Hannibal sits beside him with a smile.

“You’ve done well, Will,” Hannibal says. Casts a fond and sidelong glance to the human who had caught his attention all those years ago. The admission doesn’t feel like a lie—the last moments of Will’s life were fiercely triumphant, the peak of Will’s radiance. “Better than I could have hoped.”

Will sits up and rights the crooked frames of his glasses—unnecessary, a projection. He takes in his surroundings with some sort of muted wonder. The memory of this place is reflected in his eyes. He knows where he is. Then he looks down at himself, soaked to the bone, but ultimately unharmed. He’s in the same clothes he started this night in; some plain blue button-down and slacks. He’s missing one shoe. For some reason, he seems to find this inordinately funny, and Will starts to laugh.

He covers his face. Slowly, his laughing stops, and fades into silence.

Hannibal gives him a moment. He knows that the realization that one has died is often one that humans find upsetting. For Will, he gives more time than he would normally consider polite. But this is Will, after all, and Hannibal makes more exceptions for him than he has for anyone else in all of history. Will woke up here, not bound and gagged in Hell, flayed open and screaming his way to awareness.

Yes, Hannibal has made many exceptions.

Part of Hannibal wants to know what it would take to break him. To get strong and steady Will to scream and cry and beg, until the remembered shape of him started to distort under the weight of Hannibal’s influence. Until he was no longer Will, and became something else. The other part, the whimsical part, thinks of the fury and the glory that Will would have been capable of if he’d only embraced that killer instinct while he was alive. In a way, he nearly mourns the lost potential.

And breaks the silence. “It’s time for you to come with me.”

Will lowers his hands from his face. “No, it’s not.”

At first, Hannibal is amused. But then, seeing the resolution in Will’s expression, he pauses. Something inside him is quiet and still, paused in warning, suspended on dangerous intrigue. “Oh?”

In this metaphysical place, Will pulls the contract out of his pocket—age-worn, creased, sopping wet. The ink has started to bleed. He lays it across his thigh. Hannibal looks at it, and at him. He does not strain to read the text again. He knows what it says. He is waiting for Will’s point.

Will springs a trap he laid twenty years ago, young and soft-cheeked—buzzed enough on cheap whiskey not to seem a threat. Sharp enough to know the risk he was taking, to rebel against it with all he was.

“My natural death,” Will says. _“Natural.”_

In the moment that he points to that single line of text, Hannibal realizes that he has underestimated Will Graham.  

He is stricken. Silent. And then abruptly, coldly furious.

“Will Graham,” he says softly, warningly, and feels the weight of millennia behind the name. His voice. His words. His intent. To be outwitted by a human could undermine everything, the fabric of the universe. One unchecked soul without a master or a tether could wreak havoc. Hannibal cannot allow it. “Do not do this. You still have more to lose than you can imagine.”

Will turns to look at him, that same faint pull between his brows that Hannibal remembers smoothing away with his fingertip while he slept. He doesn’t look angry, or concerned, or afraid. He doesn’t balk at red flash of Hannibal’s eyes as they meet and clash, catch and hold. “I don’t intend to dodge you, Hannibal,” he says, whisper-quiet. He looks down at the contract again, and smooths his fingers over the words. The whorls come away smudged with ink. “But I’m not interested in being tortured for eternity, either. I propose a trade. Something for both of us.”

Hannibal says nothing. Externally, he is made of stone. On the inside, the ocean roils, clashes, crashes with flickers of emotion. He is incensed. Intrigued. Suspicious. Part of him is delighted.

When he had seen a mortal boy on a park bench drinking whiskey from a brown-bagged bottle, he had never expected what Will might become. Here, now, the potential shines as brightly as it has in all those flickers of years gone past.

Will continues, oblivious, toying with the shredded edge of the contract. It pulls away in wet clumps, one piece of a promise at a time. “I’ll stay with you,” he says. “Willingly. For all eternity, if need be. But on the condition that I will not be tortured. My family will be spared damnation.”

The mention of Will’s family snaps Hannibal from his reverie. It’s so simple a request, so human. And yet, the offer that has been made…

Hannibal’s face remains a mask, smooth as glass. He reflects nothing. Offers nothing. “Why would I be interested in something like that?”

Will is still fidgeting, but Hannibal doesn’t sense uncertainty. It’s something… else. Will traces his fingertip over the shape of his own signature. Then, slowly, over Hannibal’s. “Because it must get goddamn boring to wander the Earth and do what you do without anyone to share it with.” He lifts his head, takes off his glasses and places them on the bench at his side. With a slow inhale and silent exhale, Will looks over and meets Hannibal’s eyes. “I’ll be your companion. Spend my time with you. Speak with you about anything you wish. You can teach me everything about what you do and why. Make me understand _you._ ”

Hannibal stares at him. “With your gift, do you not understand me already?”

There’s an odd look on Will’s face, not quite a smile. Amused, perplexed at the question he’s been asked. “You’re not evil, you’re destructive. It’s different.” Will huffs a laugh and looks away. Leans back, as he did that night, and looks up at the sky. Here, in the wake of Hannibal’s control and his power, the stars shine bright and clear. Will stares up at them in silent wonder. “In the beginning, when I was young, I thought this—devils, demons, deals—was trite, you know? Cliché. Boring. I did what I did to give myself a ripcord. Slow my fall so I might survive it. But now, I… I find you interesting. I have as much to gain as you do.”

Will turns his head, still resting on the back of the bench. There’s a certain softness to his mouth, around his eyes, that reminds Hannibal of the subjects of revered oil paintings, cracked with age and rich with color. Will is a masterpiece made flesh.

And as Will’s eyes darken with the promise of rage, as he slowly sits upright and his aura crackles with intent, Hannibal realizes he’s beautiful.

“But if you say no to me, if you hurt my family, I will never again entertain the thought of knowing you.” Will’s lips press together into a tight, firm line—not resigned, but decided. “I know I’m not in a position to bargain, but this is my one-time offer. You will not get to own me, but you’ll still get to keep me. And I will stay with you. I’ll share your time with you. And you’ll never have to be alone if you don’t want to be.”

The audacity is astounding. The presumption should be infuriating. Forget torture—Hannibal should burn him away until not even the memories remain, and his loved ones carry on without knowing the hole Will’s death has now left in their lives. He should smite the light of Will’s soul from existence.

Should.

And, yet.

What might it be like, to have what Will describes? His company? Companionship? For Will to wander at his side with his bright and curious eyes, learn all the things that Hannibal knows and has only ever been able to share with those like him. A fledgling presence leaving footprints on the fate of the world.

Hannibal stares at him. Beneath the soul-projected veneer of Will’s skin, something shifts and settles back in place. He says nothing, because in this moment, he has forgotten how to speak.

_There you are._

Will is right. He need never be alone again.

“A deal with Death is sealed with a kiss,” Hannibal says. Will’s eyes widen, and Hannibal narrowly resists the urge to smile. “I made an exception for you once. I will not make such an exception twice.”

Will goes pink across the bridge of his nose. The sight of it is thrilling, if only for the fact that Hannibal has managed to put this unknowable man off-balance. His gaze lingers on the blazing flush that blooms in Will’s cheeks. Under Hannibal’s keen attention, Will’s hands clench into fists atop his thighs. The contract is crushed in his palm. Sodden and compressed, it is now beyond saving. Will’s gambit is the last chance he has at freedom. “Are you accepting my offer?”

Hannibal will assure his ingenuity doesn’t go to waste. He inclines his head toward Will, and watches his pupils dilate. “Yes, Will. I do believe I am.”

Will swallows visibly. “I—okay.”

He makes no move to come closer. Hannibal waits, the perfect image of patience. Eventually his lips curl upward with a faint, smug smirk. “Dear Will, his will never work if you’re not able to meet me halfway.”

Will scowls. His silent cursing can be read in the familiar furrow of his brow. He leans forward; hesitates when Hannibal does not move, just for the pleasure of making Will uncomfortable.

And then.

Hannibal has always existed. There has never been a time when Hannibal was not aware of the universe around him. For as long as there has been life, Death has been there to accompany it. And shortly thereafter life came a creeping hunger, desperate Famine—siblings in the endless cycle, doing as they must for always and eternity. She consumes, and he kills. Neither of them have room within the cosmic scale for debate or doubt or hesitation, nor are they suited to it.

But for once in existence, Hannibal has mercy. He reaches slowly and trails his fingers along the scruff at Will’s jaw, back toward his temple, tangles in his curls at the nape of his tender neck. He savors the echo of Will’s pulse fluttering in his throat, the subtle parting of his lips as he inhales, too soft to be a gasp. Hannibal is as intent as he is curious, for he has seen this done far more than a million times. There has simply never been a creature worth his attention in this regard—never, before now.

Oh, how he has waited.

Hannibal draws him near, this clever thing, and touches their mouths together. When his tongue brushes the seam of Will’s lips, Hannibal tastes the ocean. Beneath it, Will. A trace of blood.

When Will retreats, Hannibal lets him go. His eyes are sharp—assessing but dazed, starry and shining. He blinks slowly at Hannibal, and then again. Focuses. Leans back, and averts his gaze. The flush has bled down his neck, disappears beneath his shirt.

“Clever boy,” Hannibal murmurs, and he smiles. “A hunter among men, Will.”

Will clears his throat; his nostrils flare, and he defiantly raises his chin. He refuses to be cowed by his own embarrassment, and charges ahead full-force. “Making the best of what you gave me.”

Hannibal’s tongue touches his lips to chase that taste—intimately familiar. Will’s attention flickers down and back up again. This time, Hannibal doesn’t smile; it falls from his face until there is nothing left but intent, and Will echoes him. Maybe he feels it: that thing deep inside his soul that Hannibal is searching for. Hannibal can only hope he does.

He spears Will in place with his attention until he goes silent and still; observes the darkness inside the blue of Will’s irises, searches the black, fathomless pits of his pupils. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t think so. The monster already lived inside your bones. I simply uncovered its eyes.”

Will doesn’t blink.

He nods.

 

 

 


	2. Interlude: Evolve

 

 

Wandering with Will is a pleasure unlike any Hannibal has ever known. He proves to be an astute conversationalist, educated as well as a human could hope for, and insightful beyond those limits. They speak at length about art, about philosophy, about the evils of men, and why Hannibal makes the deals he does, when he certainly doesn’t have to.

“Amusement, in truth,” he says. “Humans are so willing to sell themselves away for momentary happiness, unknowing of what they possess inside them. Without knowing how much more eternal it is.”

“I think for some, it doesn’t matter,” Will replies idly, as he stares at the massive stone pillars of the Parthenon. He doesn’t look at Hannibal, but stands close enough that their shoulders brush. “The suffering is all they feel. They can’t think about eternity when the only concept they have of existence is what they’ve been told. A century to live. And in comparison, twenty or thirty years of suffering sounds like a lot.” Will huffs a breath through his nose and corrects himself. “It _is_ a lot. The longest thing that most will ever do, until they give their souls over and are staring down what eternity really _means._ ”

The image Hannibal wears is the same he has always worn in Will’s presence—that same passerby, sharp features, well-dressed. It is more to comfort Will than out of any attachment on Hannibal’s part, though as the weeks have faded into months, he has found the projection becoming more natural. Second-nature. He tucks his hands into the pockets of a fine coat, blending in with the milling populace—locals, rather than tourists.

And he has started to notice Will change, too: perhaps even unintentionally. Plaid has faded into tasteful solid colors, the memory of ratty jeans into faded khakis into pressed slacks, work boots into oxfords. As winter merges into spring, Will’s curls have become tamed around his ears and forehead in a way they never quite managed in life.

Will is refining himself in Hannibal’s image. He likes that thought quite a lot, actually.

Hannibal spares him an amused and contemplative smile. “You’re saying the matter is one of ignorance, rather than willful impulsivity.”

Will turns his eyes to Hannibal. Against the spring sky, they are blue—as blue as the glow of his soul, threaded with the reflection of ivory stone, golden sun. “Can’t it be both?” he murmurs.

Hannibal watches him, as attentive to Will’s reactions to the architecture around him as he is to the responses to his words. “Perhaps,” he allows. “Which motivated you?”

“At first, I think it _was_ both.” Will replies. He looks back up at the Parthenon in wide-eyed wonder. He had never left America before he died, Hannibal knows. This is his first excursion out of his home country, experiencing the rich culture native to the lands outside those borders.

If it were not for Hannibal’s attachment to him, Will would have never had the opportunity. Hannibal hopes, given the agreement they have found, that he will accompany Will to see not just this, but _everything_ this planet has to offer.

They have the time, after all. They have all the time they could ever hope for.

“And now?”

Will’s shoulder bumps his; this time, it’s deliberate. Their arms touch. When Hannibal looks at him, Will doesn’t meet his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Tell me something instead. What motivated _you,_ the night you sat beside me?”

Hannibal considers this for a while. And then, after some silence, he says, “Both as well, I believe.”

Will’s smile widens. “You’re admitting to ignorance?”

Hannibal watches Will, and what he has become. In the expanse of time before them, he wonders how Will might continue to adapt to their life together. Evolve. Become. “With all my knowledge and intrusion, Will, I could never entirely predict you.”

Will’s brow creases with the shadow of a frown. Leans more fully against Hannibal’s side. “You give me too much credit, Hannibal. I’m a simple guy. It doesn’t take much to understand me.”

“Dear Will,” Hannibal says, and removes his hands from his pockets. The backs of his knuckles brush against Will’s; he smiles when Will startles. “I respectfully disagree.”

 

* * *

 

They travel to old places, cities steeped in human history. Athens. Florence. Cairo. They walk shoulder to shoulder, appearing to the eyes of mortals as two well-dressed men. Sometimes they choose not to be seen at all. Either way, they are never far from each other—constant companions, comfortable with one another. And as they converse, as months gain momentum into years, they are… intimate. Intellectually, if not physically.

Being with Will feels almost inevitable in some way that cannot be fully defined.

But still, Will is a human soul. His power is not limitless. The longer he holds the projection of his former self, the more exhausted he becomes. The further they travel in a day, he grows weary. Though Will gains endurance as the time passes, Hannibal finds himself often with only his own company, Will’s soul relegated to that glowing azure gem that fits comfortably in his palm. It pulses with warmth, the memory of a heartbeat. Will’s presence within it is unmistakable. It is, Hannibal thinks, not so unlike sitting beside a friend as they sleep.

The thought makes him pause in the midst of the crowds of Rome, unseen and unnoticed by the teeming masses in this moment of clarity. Upon further reflection, it is undeniably true: Will Graham is his friend.

Death, destroyer of worlds—finding pleasant company with a mortal soul. Not just a companion, but a confidant.

The thought is strange. Nearly humorous. Perhaps it should be shameful, if not for the simple fact that there is no one, and never has been, that could ever stand opposite Hannibal as his equal and judge him. No one as powerful as he, as ancient and all-seeing. Even Famine and all her countless millennia is his junior; the others, not even yet born.

He does not deign to be bothered by the thought for long. He is still determined that what he has seen inside Will might be—

Curled protectively in Hannibal’s fingers, Will’s soul thrums and synchronizes with the vibrations that make up Hannibal’s wavelength, as if he could hear. As if he knows. Unthinking, Hannibal lifts his hand to his mouth and stops just shy of touching his lips to the radiant warmth.

It doesn’t do to hope. Only time will tell the truth of Will’s potential and what he may someday become.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal hunts for the first time while Will is asleep. The urge has been clawing at his insides lately. Impulse or ignorance, Hannibal’s debts come due from time to time, and he is bid to collect upon them. They aren’t often at all special or desirable like Will. They are just enough to sate his hunger.

He once traded the path and the means to become a Congressman to a feckless intern in Washington DC; exchanged it for fifteen years of success. Now, with Will safely tucked into a metaphysical pocket of Hannibal’s influence, he can stalk and kill without care, and he does.

He has no need to be human. Like this, he allows his shape to morph into that of a creature: the shape of a canid, larger than any man, pitch-black and melting into shadows. Out of a bare and faceless skull shine eyes that pierce the void in a flare of hellfire red; branching from bone, a sharp and broad crown of antlers sharpened to points. In his jaws, fangs for gorging on meat. And gorge he does—hunts the man through an unoccupied building after hours, revels in the screams. In the shred of claws through flesh. In the thick and coppery scent of blood that permeates the air.

Hannibal rips the man’s rib cage open with his massive maw, heedless of the gushing blood that streams over his face, over his limbs. He grabs bones between his teeth and crunches them; shakes his head like an animal and feels muscle and sinew tear free. Terrified cries descend into the shriek of dying prey.

He rips the man’s heart out. Tears it in half, and pulls the sickly-green soul gem from where it was so safely nestled, then lets it fall. In his starvation, he consumes the heart’s halves, one side at a time; moves on to the rest. Flesh and blood, organs and skin. Feasts his fill until all that remains are scraps of uneaten organ meat, strips of cloth, pools of fluid.

It is only once he has finished that he realizes he is not alone.

It should not be possible, to see Will standing on the other side of the body, staring down at what remains of the Congressman’s face. Hannibal is faced with the reality that he has slipped—that he has let his hunger grow too great, his control no longer iron-clad, and did not maintain his concentration on keeping Will safe and contained the way he should have. If Will has freed himself without Hannibal noticing…

“So this is what happens when debts come due,” Will says. He does not look at Hannibal’s monstrous form, but rather what is left of his victim. A victim who, if things had been different, Will might have resembled upon the due date of his soul, had Hannibal not elected to leave Will’s end to fate and circumstance. “You hunt them and eat them.”

Hannibal keeps his eyes on Will. Waits for his reaction, for any flicker of emotion. Will is unyielding, perfectly poised and controlled in a way Hannibal is not.

What does Will see when he looks at this scene?

Hannibal’s hackles raise when Will steps forward; steps in blood that squelches under the afterimage of his fine shoes, and bends at the waist. Extends pale fingers in a search for something that _is not his, he has no right—_

Will stops. Bent as he is, he lifts his head. He is face-to-face with bared, blood-coated fangs, separated by only the length of what remains of the corpse between them. Will looks up and meets his eyes.

Blue and red.

Will leaves the festering soul in the ruins where it lies, and reaches for Hannibal instead. His eyes blaze cold and bright as his palms find the angular shape of the beast’s face—skeletal, sharp ridges of exposed bone, far more massive than Will could ever hope to restrain, if that’s what he seeks.

But it’s not what he seeks. Will does not flinch at the blood or viscera. He curls his fingers around Hannibal’s jaws, heedless of his snarling predator’s teeth, and holds him there. He forces Hannibal to look at him. To _see._

“Next time,” Will growls, “you wake me up.”

Hannibal snarls. How appallingly _quaint—_ like this is an impulse that perhaps could have been controlled, and is not intrinsic in his nature? Like this isn’t what Hannibal has done, and _gladly_ done, for as long as living things have roamed the Earth?

“I want all of it, Hannibal. The deals. The hunt. The kill. Any form you take and word you speak. I told you to teach me everything about what you do and why.” Will’s eyes are vibrant in the dark, so bright as to glow, blazing ruinous bronze around his starving, black-hole pupils. He looks infuriated. He looks ravenous. He looks like—“Did you think I was joking?”

He has no mouth with which to form human words. No eyes that have lids suitable for blinking. He has only himself, and this form that he is in, primed solely for killing. It is entirely ill-equipped to deal with the soul-deep sensations he feels now and cannot properly express.

His jaw opens. Shows Will every point of his teeth, the scraps of flesh clinging stubbornly within. He drools blood, savage and undignified. He rumbles from deep within his chest, a sound that is ominous and echoing. And yet, Will does not pull away. He does not look away. He doesn’t hesitate. Will Graham maintains eye contact as he kneels in the mess, soaks his slacks in gore, and bares his teeth in return, the tiny points of his canines, bright and white.

Teeth to teeth, face to face with a monster, so close that Hannibal could take his head in his jaws right now; crush him, fracture the gem of his soul and eradicate him for his audacity—but there is nothing human in the way Will stares at him. Nothing, not at all.

No, Will is not face to face with a monster. They are, the both of them, creatures: face to face for the first time with one another in all their glory.

“Promise,” Will hisses, and his pupils expand so dark and deep that the blue is edged out to the width of a razor-wire, consumed by black and bronze.

The relief, the victory, is so keen that Hannibal could roar with it. Knock Will over and sink his teeth into him. Mark. Claim. Consume.

But Will is already his, isn’t he?

Hannibal rumbles his assent, and touches the side of his blood-slick maw to Will’s cheek. So great is the difference between their forms that he leaves a smear of gore from temple to chin.

His. _His._

Will’s hands slip up, slick with blood, and clutch at the base of his antlers. Pulls. Touches their foreheads together, and stares so deep into the vibrant glow of Hannibal’s eyes that Will’s face is bathed in reddish light.

He says, “Good.”

 

* * *

 

In the early days, Will stands in the shadows to observe while Hannibal chooses his prey and makes his deals. With time, he comes to participate, choosing from the dumb and damned for Hannibal to make his victims. With decades, he makes the suggestion to Hannibal that, perhaps, they might offer bait to a terrible person in the means of luring them to Hell. Possessing them forever. The first soul that Will would have helped him harvest, for sharing among they two.

Hannibal frowns at him, sidelong. “I’m not a vigilante, Will.”

But Will knows him too well; he is not cowed. He looks at Hannibal askance and says, “I know that. But I want to see what new and different appreciation for horror a fellow monster might have.”

Hannibal stops in the middle of their path; Florence again, with all its classic architecture and oil-lit history—Will’s insistence, to refresh the memory. Now he suspects that perhaps there is a different motivation behind the request. He does not move until Will, too, stops walking, and turns a smile on him. Steps closer. Lashes lowered, touches the outside of Hannibal’s arm, and whispers, “I’m curious.”

That night, Will lures a terrible man with a tempting promise, and Hannibal claims the soul of a serial killer in exchange for his word that, if the man is discrete, he will never be caught. Hannibal cannot understand why the prospect makes Will smile so much.

Himself, of course—he understands. It’s _interesting._ But he is Death, and cares not for mortal lives. Does not care, except for one. But Will… these inevitable victims are those like him, who have lived and struggled as he did. The very same type of people that, two decades ago, he gave his life to protect. The very same type of people that he has now just resigned to death, in favor of inciting terror for terror’s sake.

“There are seven billion humans on this planet, Hannibal,” Will replies when the night is nearly done, and the sunrise creeps up the horizon. It bathes the half-sunken city in a vision of pink and orange beneath the heavy silver clouds; the flooded canals create pools of gold around their ankles, and the reflections saturate their gray-and-black outerwear to richer shades of violet and maroon. Indigo is flattering on him, Hannibal decides thoughtfully. It becomes him. “A legend will live long beyond the bounds of a single life. Monsters will be invented in the minds of those who live in this city. It’s like releasing a wolf into the forest to cull the herds of deer—sometimes a predator is necessary to maintain the natural order of things.” Will looks around. Spins slowly in place. Smiles, not kind or absent enough to be considered wistful. It is purposeful. Prideful. “Tonight, we birthed a monster. And in twenty or thirty years, he will learn he was never truly a monster at all. There is always a bigger predator.”

Hannibal wonders why he has not yet learned to anticipate Will; why he is _always_ surprised.

Will doesn’t realize Hannibal has stopped until he’s several paces ahead—he turns back, framed by the wide, flat water, classic buildings. He paints a stunning picture; he’s an exquisite subject of portraiture. The hurrying few who are out at this early hour are clad in rainwear, not wool. Will and Hannibal are set apart. They do not fit in this place they’ve changed; only visitors, wreaking horror and havoc for years yet to come in the instant of one impulsive decision.

Neither of them may claim ignorance, tonight.

They stare at each other at sunrise in the streets of Florence, and Hannibal steps forward. He takes another step, and then another. Reaches out, and moves slowly. Gives Will obvious and ample time to retreat, to ask questions, to give any sign that this is not what he wants.

Will does nothing. Says nothing. He lifts his chin and holds Hannibal’s eyes, and so very slowly, smiles with a mouth full of small, sharp teeth.

Hannibal’s hand finds Will’s wrist. Another step, and the other mirrors the first. Slips his palms up over Will’s arms, his biceps; curves his fingers over the crest of Will’s shoulders, and stares so intently that he feels he could bore holes through the growing and formidable fortress of Will’s soul.

Will is not moved, so Hannibal moves him. Takes Will by the cheeks in a possessive hold, steps close enough to force him back, and kisses him hard.

There is no hesitation now, no fear. No need to be gentle as Will’s lips part and his hands find the back of Hannibal’s jacket, fist in the wet wool, wrench him close until there is not a part of them that doesn’t touch. Will bites at Hannibal’s mouth like he has no memory of what it means to be human anymore—what it is to be gentle, or to have to maintain restraint, or to know the affection of someone who is anything other than cruel.

For only a moment, Hannibal wonders if this is what it feels like to be alive. To be in love.

Will’s hands on him are hungry, clutching, roving, claiming. Laying a brand over the projection of their clothing, and it has been so long since Hannibal has been home that he is nearly starving for it. He weathers the strain of maintaining projections, rather than his whole and intrinsic self—feeling through echoes, still held in check by the rules of Earth’s reality.

He wants to be free. He wants to share everything. No more covert deals and stalking hunts. It is time for Will to know the aftermath: the freedom of command over life and death, over sanity and insanity, over a sentient life.

It has been twenty years since Will Graham died as a human. Hannibal would seek to kill him again, just once more, and drag him into the light of a new world. Now. Together.

“Let me show you Hell, Will,” Hannibal says. The world around them stands still, frozen in time. He touches Will jealously, his face, his hair, and sees utter starvation staring back at him in the steadily-thickening rings of bronze in Will’s eyes. Yes, the time has come. It’s long overdue. “I wish for you to know my domain. And more importantly, I believe it needs to know you.”

“Know me,” Will murmurs into his mouth. Trails his lips to Hannibal’s jaw, stubble scraping against Hannibal’s skin in a shiver of sensation. Will opens his mouth and sets his teeth there. Bites gently, just enough to leave pale imprints behind. “As your companion?” Will’s hands slip downward, settle in a firm, possessive grip at his waist. Fist around the belt of Hannibal’s overcoat, a woolen tether. “Or as your pet?”

Hannibal’s hand curves around the nape of Will’s neck; tightens, tugs him back, just enough to look Will in the eyes. He is defiant. He is worried. He need not be either. Hannibal rubs his thumb over the tendon in the side of Will’s throat and sees his lashes dip in pleasure, flash with sudden vulnerability, a stunned silence. It’s been so long since anyone touched him. Hannibal knows he must be starved for it.

“You’re no pet,” Hannibal replies—perhaps more disparaging than he should, for he sees a flicker of irritation and uncertainty around the fine lines of Will’s face. “I have no patience for the weak-willed.”

“You have time and attention for all manner of distractions,” Will argues, equally as brusque, and with a furrow between his brows. He hesitates. “Will it change me?”

“No. I’ve often found it to be revealing to one’s true self.” Hannibal’s eyes linger on that wrinkle. Resists smoothing it away with the pad of his finger, as he did when Will slept. “In that regard, perhaps Hell will draw forth your true nature, illuminate that which is stuck in stasis.”

“Then take me there,” Will says. He fixates on one of Hannibal’s coat buttons; his eyes the glow with the sunrise. He nods once. Gripping hands fall away from the belt of Hannibal’s coat. Will is close enough to feel warm, to be as magnetic as he always is, for the scant and sudden space between them to feel like miles. He takes another step back, and holds his arms out wide. “Let it see me and make its judgement about my character.”

“I have already made my judgements of you,” Hannibal replies coolly. Frowns at Will—doesn’t he understand? Hannibal would not bother if he found Will lacking.

Will lifts his gaze. Pins Hannibal with it. His eyes, blue and bronze, blaze like the sun with the power that rests inside him. It is still growing, even now. Changing him. Fueling a radiance that burns like the distant stars, creates constellations within the galaxy of his soul. “Then prove them.”

 

 

 


	3. Become

 

 

 

The universe rips open, bends around them. Hannibal opens the portal between worlds with hardly a thought; Hell is his domain, the key to which is contained within him. It is no different than turning a lock and stepping over the threshold between the world of the living and the dead.

For him, it is like coming home. But the travel exhausts Will, who is still simply a human soul—he has no great power other than his influence as Hannibal’s companion, no intrinsic talents other than his wit and his Sight. The energy generated by the gem of his soul is limited, finite, and traversing the gap is as much as he can handle.

When they arrive in Hell, brassy brimstone and eternal red-tinged twilight, Will has retreated to rest. He is a comforting little thrum in Hannibal’s hand. As he has learned to do, Hannibal tucks Will in that empty place inside his chest. The sensation of his life force is, Hannibal imagines, the closest he will ever get to having a heart.

The sky crackles with heat lightning, The image of Hannibal’s fine suit and woolen outerwear melts into shadows, dark but lightweight, that drape around his form. It is comfortable in the oppressive heat, radiating with the residual energy of every soul that has ever touched this place. The raindrops of Florence that were caught in his hair steam and dissipate as though they have never been.

In the distance, a shape rises above the horizon—a structure carved into a mountain of brimstone. It is many stories high, though it has no doors or windows; only open archways that allow the sulfurous breeze, a warm circulation of air. Any may enter, but none would dare but those who are certain of their belonging. There is a hazy quality to the world down here, but Hell’s Castle is solid.

Hannibal would not call it relief, but there is a certain peace that settles at his core when he is returned to this place. There is no need to allow himself to blend among common men; he has no desire to hide his authority and command. Here, he is recognized for it. Here, he is the lord and master to this dimension of the damned.

He is cognizant of Will’s long standing desire for solitude and personal space. In their wandering, they have not had a _home,_ as such. When Will needed to rest, he did so within his soul gem, safely nestled inside Hannibal’s self. When he was awake, they were together. But here, now, the realization strikes him that Will might like a place of his own. It is not _safe,_ as such, but it is tucked away and reasonably secure, adjacent to Hannibal’s private chambers.

It does not feel like _loss_ to pull Will’s slumbering consciousness free and to set him on a shelf carved from stone. It is not so dissimilar from a window seat, albeit the view overlooks what is most comparable to a desert landscape—red rock and gray haze, a distant, rolling heat-made thunder that will never bring rain. The blue of his soul is so strange, so vibrant, so out-of-place. It makes Hannibal want to pick him up, to take him back.

No. Even with this newfound intimacy between them, Hannibal cannot imagine that, left to his own devices, Will would not desire some measure of privacy. And as Hannibal’s _companion,_ he will be afforded a position of honor, privileges that mortals bound to Hell would never dare to dream of.

Like in everything, Will is unique. It will not take long for all of Hell to see that particular truth.

He leaves Will’s soul to rest and retreats. He tells himself that, once Will awakens, Hannibal can assist him in making this space comfortable for him, show him all there is to see within the infinite borders of his— _their—_ domain.

There is one place in particular that he is especially keen for Will to encounter.

Hannibal settles into his quarters, a place somewhere between reality and the aether that is lush with material comforts, but reflects the structure of the reddish rock beneath. There is a vast but untouched bed where he may occasionally rest and recline, a wall of tomes long-lost to the ages, an instrument that defies known form that is made with polished keys cut from femurs interspersed with blackened ribs, dulcet mechanical hammers made from knuckle bones on pulleys of tendon, striking strings of treated human gut. It is there that he transforms patterns of stars into sheet music when the mood strikes, songs that resonate so strongly across the cosmos that only his sister may hear, as though he is only playing from the next room over. She, like he, is eternal. And he knows, wherever she is, she too is waiting. Listening.

Hannibal has waited for such a long time.

And so, too, has it been a long time since he last played. He sits before the instrument and places his fingers upon the age-worn keys, gone soft and shiny and yellowed in some places with constant wear, petrified bone made smooth.

It still sounds as beautiful as he remembers.

The tone is deep, rich, each note given equal weight in a melody that starts with his own curious testing, and becomes something new. In it, he hears the motifs of cultures young and old, the rhythm of ages gone by. It is touched by the influence of the many places he has wandered with Will—and though it it is not a composition that he focuses all of his attention on, by any means, it does capture his interest as it unfolds.

A loping gait, footsteps in stride. A full-bellied laugh. A keen glance, a shared look. A smile. It holds all of these things.

It sounds like one soul rolled into a song, and it reminds him of Will.

He is barely in the fledgling stages of imagining how it might proceed when he is pulled from his reverie by a voice, a call, a cry. _“Hannibal!”_

He is on his feet in an instant, and the spell he has woven is broken.

Will crashes into the open archway on shaking legs, with trembling hands, wide and anxious eyes. Hannibal goes to him at once. “What is it, Will, what’s wrong?”

“I—” Will’s jaw clicks closed with the force of his teeth snapping together. And, so unlike him, he lowers his eyes. Looks away, deeply unsettled in a way Hannibal has not seen him for decades. Since before his death. And when Hannibal means to press him for answers, Will lifts his hand. Winds it in the loose and lightweight fabric of Hannibal’s sleeve, and tethers himself there. Anchors himself.

Hannibal looks down at his white-knuckled grip. With a faint pull of a frown, he lays his other hand over Will’s.

His shoulders sag. His chin drops. And just like that, Hannibal finds himself with Will leaning against him, forehead to shoulder, a fine series of shivers wracking his frame. “I woke up alone,” he says, the words grit out between his teeth, “for the first time in—I don’t even know how long. And I couldn't feel you. You weren’t there. And I thought you had…”

Hannibal’s palm lifts from its place over Will’s and curls harshly around the nape of his neck. Even the _thought_ is unacceptable. “Did you think I would abandon you so easily?”

Will speaks the words into Hannibal’s shoulder. Perhaps because he does not wish to pull himself away. Perhaps because Hannibal will not allow him to. “If Hell had judged me unworthy of your company?”

Hannibal’s lip curls with displeasure. “Hell draws its power from me. I do not draw my power from _it._ I answer to nothing and no one, and there is not a force in the universe that may make my decisions for me, Will.” His fingers tangle in the short, downy curls at the nape of his neck. With one tug, he wrenches Will back to look him in the eye.

But Will is not looking at his eyes. No, Will’s gaze is firm and unshakable on Hannibal’s chest: just beneath his collarbones, slightly to the left.

His heart. Or where a heart would be, if Hannibal were human.

And the very same place where Hannibal has kept Will safe whenever he slept.

Whatever words he had planned to say fall silent in his mind. Instead, they are replaced by explanation to soothe away the deep, dense wrinkles between Will’s brows. “You were always independent in life. I had thought you might want your own space.”

Will exhales. Closes his eyes. Shakes his head. Still, he shivers. “I am, but I—” He clears his throat, and laughs. Just once. There’s no humor in it at all. Will opens his eyes again in a flutter of lashes, framing bronze and blue. “It’s cold. You know. Without you.”

Hannibal’s lips part. The heat here, at times, can touch even him, and yet Will is—

Will huffs and averts his eyes, even as he leans into Hannibal’s hands, his body. His lips twist in a wry, unhappy smile. “I know I should be stronger than this. And maybe I’ll get used to it. But I’m just… so damn tired.” He looks exhausted; even the echo of his soul has dark circles etched under his eyes. “You must have better things to do than carry me around, but—”

“You’re still just mortal, Will,” Hannibal replies. But the bronze gleam in his eyes is brighter than ever, despite the lilac purple of his lids. “Don’t expect too much of yourself.”

When Will wobbles, Hannibal steadies him with care, with gentleness he has never shown another creature throughout the history of the ages: this glowing star of ferocity and intellect, waiting to burst into supernova. Hannibal will see him reach that precipice; he is more than willing to be the catalyst for Will’s becoming.

He’s so close. Hannibal has waited for so long.

But Will seems discontent. That same edge of uncertainty creeps into the light of his eyes. “You don’t think this is _revealing of my true self?_ ”

In these moments, Hannibal treasures the last vestiges of Will’s fragile humanity, even his insecurities. “You’ve only just arrived here. You haven’t even had time to rest. I will admit that it was my mistake to leave you behind in a new place. It was an oversight that won’t happen twice. Have mercy on yourself.” Hannibal tips his head to the side and surveys Will’s face. Then, more softly, “I found leaving you behind disconcerting and unpleasant. If you found it equally unsatisfactory, I see no reason for either of us to suffer.”

Will’s expression betrays his relief, true and raw and shaken. “Can I stay with you?”

Hannibal draws him forward, and Will goes so easily—but when their mouths meet, despite his shaking, despite the cold edge to his teeth, he is anything but passive. He clutches at Hannibal’s arms, nips at his mouth in a way that would leave a lesser creature bleeding. It is both eager acceptance and irritated admonishment; _glad to be home,_ and simultaneously, _don’t do that again._

Hannibal smiles. Even exhausted, even overwrought, the fight lives on inside Will, just as he knew it would. “Dear Will, there is nowhere else I would rather you be.”

 

* * *

 

Once he is able to rest, Will recuperates quickly. When he awakens some days later, it is with bright and wild eyes, rapt and starving attention to everything he sees, and a voracious appetite to learn all Hannibal knows.

The projection of his soul doesn’t know how to deal with the heat. His brow dots with sweat; he seems cagey and discontented with anything and everything. He had never worn lightweight garments like Hannibal’s when he was alive, and thus, he has no concept of what they feel like, or how to project them or to feel the relief it brings without suggestion. He still thinks in human terms, and so Hannibal’s explanations don’t get him very far.

It’s how Will ends up in Hannibal’s clothes: airy linen that breathes with him as he moves, pant legs tied up around his calves, and the collar of the shirt slouching to expose his neck and shoulders in gleaming, generous flashes of skin.

Will is no longer so irritable, and that’s progress—though it does little to keep Hannibal’s eyes off him and focused on their tasks at hand, especially when Will is not only a distraction, but distracted by _everything._

Will falls in love with the landscape. It’s the first surprise he has for Hannibal, and confesses that though he always lived by the ocean in some capacity, the desert has always felt welcoming in its solitude and mysticism. Brimstone is not a concern; instead, Hannibal finds him often sitting in that window seat and watching lightning dance over the distant mountains and never carry them rain.

There is something about this realm that gives Will energy. Perhaps it’s the wide-open space, or the lack of others that bind him to the memory of propriety, but it doesn’t take long for Will to grow nearly wild with the need to roam. Hannibal has no need for sleep, so there is no reason for him not to accompany Will wherever he desires, and many reasons for him to be wary of letting him off alone. He’s not yet had any unfortunate run-ins with Hell’s residents: corrupted creatures of smoke and ash, of dark humor and malice. He’s curious about Will’s reaction to them, but until that moment comes, he is content to oversee Will’s exploration.

Will runs. Often. Barefoot, unconcerned by rocks and debris, blackened with soot on the palms of his hands and from the bottoms of his feet to his ankles. When he wipes his face, he leaves streaks of dust and dirt behind.

He looks like a wild thing. He smiles like a predator, a wolf free to prowl.

The first time Hannibal had taken his hunting form to run at Will’s side, his eyes had gone impossibly bright, so terribly pleased. Able to see him properly in the light of day, Will had stroked his filthy hands over Hannibal’s exposed skull, the branching antlers, traced the joints of his jaw back to the ruff of feathers around his neck, and the musculature of his hybridized body. He had done so with gentle, curious fingers, but had not flinched when Hannibal twitched and rumbled beneath his touch; muscles of his shoulders and back and legs that have not felt another’s touch since—

—have not felt another’s touch, ever.

Running with Will like this makes Hannibal deeply regret that they never hunted together on the Earth’s surface in a more literal sense. Instead, it had been lure and hook, catch and release, their prey never knowing that it was about to hang itself on a length of translucent line.

When they return, when things have changed, they will hunt together for real. Hannibal will make sure of it.

Within Hell, Will is changed. He is fierce and curious and motivated, and Hannibal knows the time is coming when he will put Will to his final test. But some things about Will are, perhaps, not so changed at all. His discovery and subsequent attachment to the Hellhounds, included.

They are pale, skeletal creatures; red eyes, pink noses, white skin stretched over lean, sinewy muscle and stocky bones. Their heads are broad, flat, with bulging jaws and formidable fangs, perked ears and long, whip-like tails. In truth, Hannibal has never paid them much mind, other than to give them the occasional order. They answer him without hesitation, since they only have one job—to find and hunt wayward souls that escape from the demons’ cruel games, and to return them to the Racks where they belong.

To Will, they might as well be his pack of strays, for all the shine he takes to them. Coordinates them with commands and whistles, names creatures that have never had names for millennia. He gives them purpose, gives them identity, gives them a master to be loyal to. It is a process that Hannibal oversees from within the bounds of the castle at times, watching Will far below with the hounds in the courtyard. He draws the line when Will tries to spirit them inside; they belong free, after all, where they can do their job.

Will’s eyes are sharp. Only the faintest ring of blue remains. His head tips to the side, and with it, the curled wisps of his bangs shadow his brow. The heat does not affect him anymore. It’s with some strange sensation that Hannibal isn’t sure when the change took place. “Their job?”

Hannibal leans against the open doorway of Will’s quarters, more regularly used now that Will has grown comfortable here. Though his comforts are few; he’s still learning how to harness the power inherent here, and often refuses Hannibal’s help as a matter of pride. Stubborn thing. At least he still seeks Hannibal out when the exhaustion grows unbearable and he needs real, true rest. He seems close to such a time now. “Yes. They’re beasts of burden, Will. Working creatures.”

Will pushes off from his window seat. He approaches slowly, a stalking creature, head tilted. “And what is their job?”

Hannibal is unfazed. He blinks. “To mind the souls bound in Hell, and to capture and return them to their rightful place, should they escape.”

Another step. Will draws closer. “Escape from where?”

Hannibal deliberately does not react, aside from one lifted brow. Despite the burning interest inside him, he is outwardly unimpressed and unaffected. “The Racks.”

Will’s eyes flash, bronze and bright. He stops before Hannibal, chin lifted, lashes lowered and half-lidded. He is the perfect picture of proud seduction, quiet power and challenge rolled into the form of a man who wears Death’s clothing without a care. “Which you’ve never mentioned before now.”

“It was irrelevant.”

Will’s eyes go from cool assessment to heated challenge. “Was it irrelevant? Or were you hoping to keep me blind to what you do here?”

Hannibal huffs through his nose. “No, I don’t take you to be so naïve. You know what I am. You know why we’re here.”

“And you’ve kept me away. You do nothing without purpose.” Will reaches out, rests one finger against Hannibal’s sternum. It burns like Will himself rests inside that empty space, throbs like Will is holding the sum of Hannibal’s heart within the whorl of his fingerprint. “You wanted me to get comfortable here. You wanted me to get attached to this place. To having a home. To you, and me with you. The peace here, before you dropped destruction on our own doorstep.”

“The destruction never left.” Hannibal stares into Will’s face, and his eyes do not waver. Will meets him in a tense, silent challenge. “It has never been anything other than what it is. Your ignorance of the truth doesn’t change reality.”

A muscle in Will’s jaw twitches. “Doesn’t it?” he asks. “Since I came here, how many times have you been _there?_ ”

The sensation that strikes Hannibal is a strange stillness. It is very nearly cold, though it is not anger, and it is not offense. It is simply the unfortunate weight of reality catching up with him. The veil of his own illusions lifting.

Will is not incorrect. Since they arrived—though Hannibal would usually do little else—he has spent all his time in Will’s proximity, even while he was sleeping and needed no entertainment. He has not wandered far from the castle unless Will was at his side, and even then, he steered Will clear of that place.

Why? It’s not for fear of the violence. Will knows exactly what type of creature he’s aligned himself with; the real and true embodiment of Death and all it entails.

It’s not for lack of desire. He’s imagined often what it would be like when the time finally came to introduce Will to the true nature of Hell. He has pictured it in his mind—Will, bathed in blood. Will, armed with a blade. Will, triumphant over the less worthy of his own kind. Will, becoming something new. Something other. Something like Hannibal.

He’s been waiting for it since they met. So why hasn’t he set that catalyst forth into action? Why has he not begun the process?

Will stares at him expectantly, and Hannibal finds he does not have a fully realized answer. He has never had to consider his own reasoning before. He has never had anyone _foolish_ enough to question his judgement. Never anyone, until Will.

“That’s what I thought,” Will replies. He wears his shrewd regard like a crown, wields his empathy like a weapon as he searches the flat, blood-red depths of Hannibal’s eyes. “But you want to bring me there, don’t you? You want to see what I’ll do.”

Hannibal’s lips press together into a thin, firm line. There is no point in lying. “Yes.”

Will nods, an acknowledgement. The thoughts spin themselves out in the form of words, a path mapping itself across the planes of his clever mind. “You’ve always wanted to see what I’d do. You were there on the night I died. You saw me fight Francis Dolarhyde. You were waiting before he shot me, there with me, hidden out of sight. You knew I was going to die, and you knew I’d go down fighting.”

Hannibal inclines his head.

Will does not break their stare. His thought process whirs behind his eyes, cogs in the greater machine of Will’s intellect. The flash of realization and long-buried memory is not unlike the lightning Will so enjoys watching, sudden and violent and striking. “You were there the night Randall Tier attacked me, too.”

A soft breath. Hannibal nods once.

Will’s brow furrows. His lips part, expose the sharp points of his teeth. “Why? Did you know he was coming?”

“Yes,” Hannibal answers. “I was there with you at that scene in the woods. Randall, too, was not far off. I noticed him notice you.”

“You didn’t warn me.”

Hannibal huffs an incredulous breath. “What reason would I have to do such a thing? You belonged to me either way, no matter when you died.”

Lines etch themselves around Will’s eyes; a hard resilience at the suggestion of being owned, Hannibal is sure. “Then why bother? You just wanted to watch me get killed?”

“I wanted to see _whether_ you would get killed, yes,” Hannibal answers. “I saw your potential. I saw Randall’s. In all honesty, I was simply curious to see what would happen.”

Will’s mouth twitches toward a snarl. For some reason, his anger sparks a slow, rolling smolder inside Hannibal, and he echoes the expression.

“Have I wounded your feelings, Will? I would have thought by now you would have known that I don’t share your sensibilities. Your kind have always been the source of my amusement, my pastime. They create and destroy, and come up with progressively more interesting ways to kill one another—yet the song remains the same. The manner in which you die is perhaps the only worthwhile thing a human being has to offer.”

The flicker of hurt that crosses Will’s face comes at the very moment that Hannibal realizes the gross generalization he has made, and the way he has so casually and carelessly thrown Will in with those he outmatches by a thousandfold. Hannibal has known this ever since they met. To pretend he doesn’t is a discredit to the many ways Will has proved himself the apex of his species.

Will’s nostrils flare. His jaw goes tight. He turns, body crackling with all the force of an oncoming storm, and when Hannibal’s hand snaps out to stop him leaving, Will _snarls_ and smacks it away. “Don’t _touch_ me.”

It doesn’t hurt; Will is not capable of hurting him. But perhaps what makes Hannibal stop is simply the shock of it. As Will turns away, Hannibal’s gaze rests heavily on the back of his neck, which flushes pink with the force of the emotional upset his soul is suffering. His shoulders bunch and tense, and though it should be such a foolish thing for him to bare his vulnerable back to the greatest danger within the universe, to Hannibal, it does not feel like arrogance, as much as it is curt and cold.

Hannibal lifts his chin. Straightens his spine. Blinks, and exhales sharply through his nose. His pride is stung and his ego is irritated, and yet a flicker of something that he refuses to name as _regret_ settles in that empty place where Will usually lives. “Will—”

“Go.” Will does not turn back around as he retreats, climbs into the window seat, and stares out at the dark haze of clouds that cling to the distant mountains. He shakes. “Get out. Unless you plan on destroying me once and for all so I have one last _worthwhile_ thing to offer you. I won’t make you suffer the boredom of my company any more today.”

Perhaps it’s petty to retort rather than apologize. But Hannibal is wildly, desperately out of practice in the art of _arguing_ in a world where his word is the first, last, and _only._ No longer, it seems. “This kind of petulance is not worth the effort it would take to be rid of you.” Hannibal snaps. In truth the thought of being without Will, forever—“I thought you were better than this.”

Will’s shoulders stiffen. The nape of his neck darkens to red with the depth of his emotions. But his voice, when it comes, is quiet. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Hannibal stands there, still. He waits for the snappy retort that is sure to come. The wild anger. The physical confrontation. Will gives him none of that. He simply sits in silence for such a time that it becomes stunningly clear that Hannibal has been _dismissed._

The anger starts somewhere deep. The bite of rejection closes its teeth around his ribs. So, too, does the feeling that he has no desire to categorize as remorse, but no other word to describe it. So Hannibal goes. His footsteps echo on the stone, though he has never noticed before whether he makes sound when he moves. Perhaps it’s a habit he picked up subconsciously from Will.

Will this, Will that. Will, Will, _Will._

The realization that Hannibal has been tailoring his needs to the desires of his companion is one that does not sit well with him. He bares his teeth as he descends to the ground floor, steps growing longer and smoother, shedding the mantle of a human-impostor and becoming the beast of his nature.

His skull cracks, elongates. Flesh rips away, and branching antlers tear from his scalp. Like ink dropped into water, his skin is stained black and thickens, becomes a leathery hide; fur and feathers grow thick around his neck and chest, even as his spine slices free. His rib cage expands until he can no longer bodily contain it, exposed bones a dull ivory color, drenched in residual red. His teeth sharpen, become fangs.

He is a creature of blood and bone, flesh and fur. He is the stuff of nightmares, for everyone but Will.

He has no need to run to the Racks. With a thought, he could be there—but the wildness inside him is at its peak, churning and furious, and it needs an outlet, so Hannibal runs.

He does not look back to see if Will watches him go.

 

* * *

 

The demons part like the sea as Hannibal descends upon their domain. The most accomplished among them stand tall and wait with eager anticipation like children hoping for his favor. They have known, of course, that he has returned. Their eyes burn with questions that they do not dare to ask. They, of all creatures, show him the respect he is due. They watch him become himself again with mingled awe and horror. Hannibal lifts his chin, a show of power, of pride, and pays no mind to the fact that he leaves bloodied footprints on the brimstone as he paces between the rows of screaming souls.

The knife in his hand feels natural as anything: a small, curved blade with a wooden handle that fits comfortably in his palm. The first wails of his victims fill his head with sound, and oh, he has _missed_ this.

He is Death, destroyer of worlds and living things. He peacefully spares the innocent and shepherds them onward, and unrepentantly claims each and every one of the damned for his own. Such it is now, and such it has always been. It shall always be so, before Will and after Will.

But no matter how much blood he sheds, no matter the grotesque art he creates, no matter the organs he removes and consumes from the soul projections of his victims (not so satisfying as flesh and blood, but nourishing all the same) he cannot overcome the voice in his head. He shreds souls, revels in screams, but it refuses to be drowned out. With each slice, it whispers and croons and promises how much better things could be, how much _more_ he would enjoy them with another at his side. An equal to teach. A hand to hold still, to steady an amateur’s blade.

These jeering, laughing demons are no comparison for the quiet attentiveness he can see so clearly in his mind’s eye. Restrained, intimate ferocity. A casual grace. Vicious practicality, and impulsive artistry.

No matter how far he goes, the thought of Will is never far behind.

It’s more than irksome. It’s infuriating. And with that in mind, he goes searching for his next victim—the one he had been saving in the hopes of… something else. Something other than what he’s gotten.

Hannibal comes to stand at the foot of a structure that is made of twisted, gnarled igneous rock, and a soul chained down to it. He cannot call it a man, for his hands and feet have darkened from flesh toned to ash-black. It creeps up his arms, coils around his throat, tendrils dipping into his eyes that are no longer piercing blue, but wells of darkness that coat the iris and sclera. He has held up to the years remarkably well. Most break in ten, even the killers.

But Francis Dolarhyde is still half-human with two decades come and gone.

He stares at Hannibal, not with dread, but with something like suspicion. “I know you.”

Hannibal tilts his head. “Do you?”

Dolarhyde’s bare chest heaves with breath. His soul has not yet forgotten the habit of breathing, despite the inhumanity encroaching upon it. “You were there the night I killed Graham.”

Hannibal’s lip twitches, and something cracks. Francis shouts, head thrown back hard enough against his restraints that he is temporarily stunned; Hannibal breaks his tibia without moving a muscle, his blade still idle at his side. He says to the silent, panting thing, “I believe you meant _the night Will Graham killed you._ ”

When emotions are shown in the eyes, it does not matter what color they are. Francis’ fury shows clearly through the black to complement his permanent snarl. “The Great Red Dragon submits to no mortal man. You helped him.”

“I didn’t,” Hannibal replies dismissively. “I was only there to watch, and to collect should his debt come due. And so it did.” He watches gray-tinged pain-sweat dot Dolarhyde’s brow. “He defeated you, Francis. Ding-dong, the Dragon is dead.”

The man shakes with agony, with anger. He bares his teeth. “We will _never_ die!”

Hannibal smiles. It’s a small, cruel thing. “Where do you think you are?” He arches a brow, and tucks his hands behind his back. He is still slick with blood from head to toe. “This is my domain. You are bound, powerless, prone before Death as an adversary. There is no escape for you.”

Francis pants like a beast, like a dog; mouth open, drooling, eyes wild. “I am undergoing change. Becoming. And you—” But then, his gaze slips away. Past Hannibal. To something else. They fix there. _“You.”_

The screams have died out without Hannibal noticing. He notices now.

Hannibal turns, as every other demon and devil does to face the flare of power that approaches—unbroken, untainted, shining. Will’s eyes are hard, his posture strong, and he is… different. Different than Hannibal left him at Hell’s Castle all those hours ago. Different than he has been since he reached Hell some months back, though a definitive timeline is difficult when there are no sunrises and sunsets, no evenings and mornings, no nights; only the changes one undergoes inside.

Will has undergone another, and Hannibal was not there to see it.

His hair is tamed across his brow, around his ears. It’s shorter than it has been lately. His clothing, too: he’s shed Hannibal’s and donned his own again, something different than he arrived in—deep red linen that reminds Hannibal of blood and wine, pristine white buttons undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up around his forearms. His black slacks are more fashionably cut than he ever donned while alive, but not so dissimilar to the way he was when they wandered together on the surface. All of him is polished in this way, down to patent leather shoes that look so laughably out of place in the depths of Hell, and yet so stunningly immaculate that Hannibal cannot look away from him.

And Will does not look away from Hannibal.

The demons’ hackles raise as Will approaches. He all but glows with the force of his raw humanity, the undiluted power that pours from within him. Confidence strengthens the light of his soul, an aura that is tangible but not visible for any but Hannibal, bursting with blue and crackling like lightning, a tempest that roils with his emotions.

It’s so complete a transition that Hannibal might not recognize him as the same creature, if he did not know Will so intimately as he does. Will has grown from a warm presence to a burning one, a wildfire set loose upon the unexpecting. He is nothing like anyone else. He is nothing like any demon or devil has ever seen before. They do not touch him as he passes, and Will does not spare them a glance. His focus remains solely on Hannibal, who turns to meet him. Hannibal, unapologetically soaked and splattered with blood, a testament to the savage sadism inside him. Hannibal, who takes one look at Will, and after a moment of being stunned, is overcome by pure, raw _anger._

How _dare_ he? How _dare_ Will Graham take the next step in his becoming without Hannibal to guide him? How _dare_ he undergo such a thing alone, after all the time they have spent together, and rob Hannibal the joy of being present for it? How _dare_ he come to Hannibal centered and confident, when Hannibal himself has never felt so unmoored and out of control?

Will’s eyes are bronze. Will’s eyes are blue. Will’s eyes fall to Francis Dolarhyde, bound and snarling, and only then does he pause. It’s not a falter, no. Just a pause in his step, a tightness around his mouth, and the slow clench of his jaw.

Hannibal’s matches it. _“Any form you take and word you speak,_ I believe is what you said. And yet you will not do me the same courtesy.”

Will’s gaze snaps to him. His expression does not change as he huffs a short, sharp breath through his nose, though whatever emotion it embodies, Hannibal cannot be sure.

“I didn’t leave you, Hannibal,” Will replies, his tone entirely even, entirely unbothered. “You left me. Both times. What I become in your absence when you leave me behind is no one’s responsibility but your own.” His head tips to the side, but the effect is not puppyish anymore. No, it’s the consideration of a hunting dog scenting prey. “Hello, Francis.”

“Graham,” he snaps. “You’re looking better than I left you.”

What reaction he hopes to provoke, he doesn’t get it. The sight of Will’s slow, cold smile only seems to enrage him, and Will says, “You’re not.”

Hannibal stands in silence. It is only now that Will allows his attention to wander, sliding over the sight of prone bodies bound in chains, some flayed down to blood and bones, others more… creatively arranged, only to be made whole once more so they might experience the pain again. There are hundreds here, thousands. Each await the steady hand of a master and the sadism of a god. Hannibal provides both whenever the mood strikes him.

But, now.

“I thought I’d come to see what the fuss is about,” Will mutters. The bronze in his eyes is dull. Flat. “I don’t know what I expected, but this was not it.”

The edge of disgust in his voice is a blow. A personal affront. It’s… _painful._

No. He’ll see. He _has_ to see.

Hannibal lifts his chin. Inhales slowly, measured, and holds out the blade, handle-first.

Will looks down at it; then to him. His jaw sets. Stubborn to a fault as his eyes flash with understanding, and then with hard resolve. “No.”

Hannibal pushes because he must. Because the alternative of Will disappointing him is unacceptable. Despite the offered weapon, his hand tightens around it. “You said yourself that there is always a bigger predator. Prove to me that _you’re_ the bigger predator, Will. That under the right circumstances, under the right hand, dragons can beg and bleed.”

Will’s lips press together. He glances down at the blade, then back to Hannibal again. This time, with a glimmer of something that looks like pleading panic. “Don’t ask me to do this.”

“You _cannot_ walk beside me on the surface and help me choose who is to be damned without having a hand in their punishment.” Hannibal bares his teeth in a snarl.

The empty place in his chest is sore, pulsing in time with the crackling flow of Will’s tumultuous moods. He huffs a hard breath and snaps his hand out, pushes the handle against Will’s palm and forcibly closes his fingers around it. Takes a step nearer. Meets his eyes, and gazes into them. He searches for the creature that ran with him, that delighted in their mutual wildness; the one that held Hannibal’s skull in his hands and demanded they be equals in everything. _Everything._ “You wanted this, Will. This is what you asked me for.”

Hannibal holds his hand, the knife, between their bodies. He’s close enough that if he took just one step more, blood would stain Will’s shirt. The thought of him marked by Hannibal’s thrill of violence is satisfying, but Will pays no mind to Hannibal’s state compared to his own. Instead, he stares down at the knife, the wooden handle, the curved blade. It’s a sharp little thing. So small. But it could cause so much pain.

Like Will, it has such potential, should he choose to wield it wisely.

“But they’re not all like Dolarhyde,” Will replies quietly. “I know that, Hannibal. This is enticement—hurt the man who hurt me, who threatened my family.”  

A vein in Hannibal’s jaw twitches at the word. A deep, intrinsic part of him rebels at the idea of anyone else holding ownership over Will, no matter how long ago, no matter how impermanent.

“But some of these people weren’t evil, Hannibal, they were clueless. They hoped for a better future for themselves, and were taken advantage of.” Will does not say the words _by you,_ but Hannibal hears them all the same. It stings. “Their only crime was ignorance of all the things you’ve taken the time to show me.”

“That will always be true. They will always be ignorant.” When Will’s eyes fix on him, softer, pleading, it only makes Hannibal more agitated. Does Will hope to manipulate him with a gentle touch and pleading voice? It’s no less petulant than he was at Hell’s Castle, and the reality of it is an affront to Hannibal’s nature. He snaps, “I never claimed to be fair. You are only here by glory of your own intelligence, Will.”

Why does he not understand? The gaping expanse within Hannibal’s chest is not comforted by this conflict. He takes no pleasure in arguing like this. Will is the sole exception to a rule, and the idea that he can’t comprehend it is so infinitely _frustrating_ that Hannibal is uncertain what he can even do to make Will see, _make_ him understand.

He _needs_ Will to understand. To see him. To see this, and share this, and _know_ , because the alternative is something so profoundly unacceptable that Hannibal does not even want to consider it.

But he’s been changing. Will has _changed._ It means something. It must.

And that means he’ll see it, because he has to.

Right now, though, Will doesn’t seem close to understanding at all. His lashes lower. The corners of his mouth turn down. A quiet exhale shakes him, close enough to Hannibal that he can feel the tremors in Will’s body. “And what if—?”

Will’s voice cracks. It is the first and only show of genuine emotion, weakness, Hannibal has seen so far, and it stills his anger. Tempers it. Whatever Will is feeling, it is rooted deeply.

Will winces at the sight of the blackening limbs, the grayish sweat, the polluted eyes. He swallows hard, and the lines around his blazing eyes harden. He looks up, and meets Hannibal’s attentive stare directly. “What happens if another _intelligent_ one like me comes along? Someone younger, more interesting. More willing to listen to you, do whatever you want them to. What will become of me then? I end up right here, next to Francis?”

Hannibal is stricken by the sheer absurdity. The pinch of his brows is involuntary, immediate. His eyes narrow in thought. “I didn’t take your worries to be quite this ordinary. Do you think me so fickle?”

Will rears back. Shoots him a disbelieving glance. His nose wrinkles as he looks down at the knife in his hand, slips his index finger into the grip ring and spins it deftly, just once. “I think you decided I was amusing on a whim. Until now, I’ve continued to amuse you. But I’m not an mindless follower, Hannibal. I’m not agreeable. I won’t do as you say because you say it, and in the span of forever, we won’t always see eye to eye.” He looks to Dolarhyde, still snarling, and frowns. “What will you do to me when I make you angry? When I defy you? I never promised you my obedience, only my company.”  

Will’s contemplative frown deepens. Then, like steel, solidifies into resolve.

Will flips the knife; holds it out handle-first. He shakes his head with a wry twist of a smile. “I won’t do this.”

Inside him is a void that grows wider, deeper, darker at Will’s continued rejection. Hannibal doesn’t take the knife. He refuses to, as firmly as Will refuses him now.  “Will. Rethink this,” he says. It’s a command; he does not allow himself to acknowledge how desperate it sounds. “Carefully.”

Time turns. Will sighs. He reaches out and takes Hannibal’s hand. He places the knife in his palm and curls Hannibal’s fingers around it with such tenderness, just as Hannibal did for him. But this time, when he steps close, he places the sharp edge of the blade against his own midsection.

And he waits.

Hannibal’s grip clenches around the handle. He inhales, though it’s not as steady as he would hope for. Anger and stubborn denial war upon the battlefront of his mind. The victor is neither; it’s traitorous, terrible pain. “Will.”

“I know you could still kill me if you wanted to,” Will whispers. He tips his head to the side, gazes through his lashes. He’s so lovely like this, and if the moment were any different, if they weren’t in the midst of a deadly argument, Hannibal would not hesitate to pull him near. Have him, here and now, for all of Hell to see and bear witness. “So do it.”

Will Graham is _his_. His life belongs to Hannibal, though never so literally as it has been in this moment.

His hand tightens until his knuckles turn white, but he does not feel the strain. “Why?”

Will’s countenance hardens, face like stone, lips pulled back in a grimace. “I never want you to look at me the way you look at _him_.” He huffs derisively and gazes over Hannibal’s shoulder at Dolarhyde. “Like an animal. Sub-human. Not even the way you looked at people on the surface, it’s… different. That corruption—” Will barks laughter, but not with humor. “If you make me do this, it’ll change me. And when you can’t see my eyes anymore, when my insides are made of smoke, you’ll stop seeing me. I’d rather die by your hand knowing it’ll hurt you, instead of knowing you don’t care at all. I’d rather die like I did the first time, knowing exactly who and what I am.”

Hannibal is still and silent. Will waits, and Hannibal waits for him to break. He waits for Will to fold. He waits for Will to cede, to take the knife. He has to take it. Because Will is not _just_ Will. He has never been _just_ Will, and Hannibal cannot let him remain _just_ Will.

How does one explain such a monumental truth at a moment such as this?

Hannibal bares his teeth. “I _know_ who you are. You delight in wickedness and then berate yourself for the delight. You can’t carry on this way—”

It happens in an instant. Perhaps Hannibal should have expected it.

Will forces himself forward and impales himself on the blade, steel to gut. His mouth opens on a terrible gasp, but he does not stop—he forces it deep, draws close enough to rest his face on Hannibal’s shoulder, to press a kiss to the bodily blade comprised of flesh and bone. Will puts his mouth to the blood of strangers and murmurs, “You delight. I tolerate.” A shuddering breath, a whisper: “I don’t have your appetite.”

For the briefest moment, Hannibal considers gutting him. But the pain of Will’s determined refusal would be nothing compared to the pain of losing him. The pain of waiting for another who is worthy to be born, to grow, to live, to die, and to take the over the title that rightfully belongs to Will Graham.

No. Hannibal won’t accept anyone else. He has waited this long. No longer.

The glowing heat of Will’s soul drips over his hands, bright blue and shining, metallic like mercury. It is not blood—it’s stronger than that, imbued with everything that makes Will a singular being. It crackles on Hannibal’s palms, stings like wayward sparks, as the life force of a foetal god puddles around their feet.

It is exactly as he’s suspected. Exactly as he’d hoped. And yet, Will seeks to rob Hannibal of his company, his companionship, the final step in his Becoming.

There is, however, one integral flaw: the title of Death belongs to Hannibal, and Death does not want Will Graham to die.

Hannibal drops the knife on the brimstone; leaves it forgotten. He bends and scoops Will into his arms, careless of his pained yelp. Will bleeds energy, bleeds grace, and it is wet and hot between them. When Will’s face tucks against his shoulder, it’s with a whimper; it’s a sound that begs for mercy, to end his damning misery.

“Stupid boy,” Hannibal hisses, and clutches him close. The urgency of this moment splits reality open; between one step and the next, the Racks disappear. The blood that soaks Hannibal through disappears, but for Will’s. The sweat and dirt of his exertions is gone, the manifestation of his clothing made clean, black like smoke, loose and flowing. It is like this whole day has never been. Only Will’s wound lingers between them as they cross the dimensional threshold into Hannibal’s quarters.

Hannibal lays Will down on a bed that has never been truly slept in. It is an unnecessary comfort, but Hannibal is grateful for it now. Will tips his head back with an agonized sound that is just on the cusp of ecstasy; neon blue leaks through his fingers as he shudders and gasps.

Hannibal stares down at him, and then he is moving—prowling up Will’s body like the starving predator he is. Will whines as Hannibal straddles him, and his eyes snap open and wide as Hannibal works the buttons open. A hot flush colors Will’s cheeks as Hannibal divests him of his shirt, though by all rights, reason says he should blanch and grow weak.

Hannibal has never seen Will bare before. Not in the lifetime since Will became his.

Hannibal’s fingers splay wide over him; one hand at Will’s lower rib cage, the other just below the gash, curled around his hip. His chest and torso are pale and fine, save for the ugly tear in his manifestation that is still bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. Pooling, dripping, glowing radiance that is uniquely Will Graham.

Hannibal bends his head to drag his tongue over the wound. To taste Will’s grace. Will’s self-sacrifice. Will’s worry of becoming unwanted. He takes it all, consumes it all, and savors the sharpness of sparks on his tongue, the taste of ozone and something sharp, tart like citrus.

When he glances up, he finds Will staring back at him, wide-eyed and hot-cheeked. His tremulous voice shivers and shudders and breaks on a moan; Will’s hips cant upward and presses the gash in his abdomen more deeply against Hannibal’s mouth. His fingers tangle in Hannibal’s hair, blunt nails scraping gently against his scalp.

The taste of Will is addictive. Invigorating. If Hannibal didn’t need him so, he thinks he might consume Will whole, body and soul. The thought is enticing; the energy he sups of is electric within him. The idea of keeping Will forever within him has merit. He feels his eyes sharpen and burn, flare a vivid, glowing red in the presence of an equal.

 _Almost_ an equal.

Hannibal sits astride Will’s hips and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere to be forgotten. He places his own hand to his abdomen; mirrors the place where Will has mutilated himself. He inhales; Will’s energy is shared within him, gives him focus. Purpose. Reality shifts in his wake, and with bestial claws, Hannibal rips himself open with a triumphant laugh and oozes vibrant red.

He gathers it on his fingertips, paints sigils across Will’s chest. Distinct. Large. Shining bright and furious against his skin as the blue leaks out and pools in the dips of his abdomen, in his navel. In places, blue and red run together and stream over the valleys of Will’s body, staining the bedclothes.

Will reaches for his wrist. He shakes, pupils blown wide. “H-Hannibal. What—”

“You worry I will grow tired of you,” Hannibal says, and Will is silent. He watches Hannibal work, watches him speak. Will’s eyes linger infinitely on his mouth, and he narrowly resists smiling for it. “That I will replace you. Sometimes I forget that you are still very much human, Will. A human’s soul, yes—but steeped in the beliefs you were raised with. Jealousy. Sadness. Desire. Restraint. I’ve observed so many times that you wanted something and didn’t ask for it, and I was content to wait until you decided on the words. I’m realizing now that you are so infernally _stubborn_ that you would clearly rather die than say those words out loud to me.”

Hannibal paints a second line of symbols across Will’s ribs. He dips his fingers back into his own wounds to gather more red when he runs out, smears ancient claims on a living canvas. Will’s pupils nearly eclipse the bronze; he reacts solely on instinct, reaches up for Hannibal and, too, digs his fingers into the gouges, seeking to hurt, to lash out in return for the way Hannibal is laying him bare. For whatever unknowable thing Hannibal is doing to him now.

But Hannibal does not hiss or cringe away. The sensation of Will’s fingertips curling into his wound is startlingly intimate. Hannibal’s lashes dip, half-lidded consideration as he smiles, and purrs as Will arches beneath him, though not in agony—he’s getting hard.

“Hellion,” Hannibal says fondly. “I suppose it was too much to expect you would understand.”

Will snarls wordlessly. He presses his red-stained hand over the glowing blue of his own wound, though whether he seeks to stem the bleeding or sate his own curiosity, Hannibal is uncertain.

But then the colors merge, blue and red into a shocking shade of violet, and Hannibal’s eyes light with surprise, with pleasure, with dark desire.

Will snaps his hips up; Hannibal bears him down into the mattress, sighs as the attempt at unseating him slows, shifts, rolls. It’s experimental, untried; Hannibal answers him with a tight, controlled grind that has Will’s jaws parting, lashes fluttering, hands reaching for Hannibal’s hips. “God—understand _what,_ Hannibal? I’m sick of the damn _games._ Just tell me what you mean for _once—”_

Hannibal finishes his line of sigils. He snatches Will’s wrists in his palms, pins them up over his head, crushes their bodies together. The ancient symbols do not smudge or transfer back to Hannibal’s skin; his eyes flash with satisfaction, red as the infernal energy he bleeds just for Will, _only_ for Will.

And Hannibal breathes, “Did you truly expect me to kiss every insolent human whose soul I have ever claimed, Will? You know me so well by now, and you never stopped to wonder? How many souls have we taken together, and how many times have you seen me regard them as I regard you?”

Will squints at him. There’s _something_ there in his eyes, inside the black, a glimmer within the depths. It looks hesitantly hopeful, though Will’s tone is still insufferably _rude._ “So what?”

 _“So,”_ Hannibal snaps, and leans down to bite Will’s lip _hard_ until it’s oozing—bright, blinding purple. “You _offered,_ Will. You said that I could keep you, and you would stay with me. You promised yourself and sealed it with a kiss. Now, tell me, what does that sound like to you?”

Silence. Utter silence.

Hannibal anchors his forearms on either side of Will’s head. They’re close like this, so close. Will stares up at Hannibal in dawning comprehension, and to Hannibal’s delight, he looks _furious._ “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Hannibal tilts his head to the side and levels Will with a sardonic little smile. “Why should I be?” He touches his mouth to the corner of Will’s and laps at the violet glow. “We both know how selfish I can be.”

Will is stricken. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed. “You didn’t think to _mention_ that we were married for these last two decades, Hannibal?”

“I did not think you were so materialistic as to need a ring,” Hannibal murmurs, and in a fit of rage, Will bites him in return. The resulting flow, however, is still scarlet. Only Will has changed, though Will’s nature has never changed at all. “I’m hoping what I offer now will do.”

Will rears back. Looks at Hannibal’s mouth, and then down between their bodies. _“Offer?”_ Will demands with a scowl.

He twists in Hannibal’s grip and digs his red-stained fingernails into Hannibal’s skin, shreds at the metaphysical window dressing, projected and sustained over the entity of intent he is inside. Will’s ire suits Hannibal just fine. He can heal these wounds whenever he likes.

Nothing can kill Death, after all. Though he would be content to allow Will Graham to try.

“What you _offer?”_ Will repeats, and cranes his neck to look at the sigils. A thin, reedy thread of panic works into his voice. “Or what you’ve already given me?”

Hannibal’s lips twist into a smug smile. _“You_ offered it with your blood, Will. I simply reciprocated.”

But the look on Will’s face is not one of happiness, or even irritation—it’s terror. Will swallows, pulls at Hannibal’s grip, and finds himself pinned. Finds himself changed, as Hannibal has gone through such lengths to accomplish, at long last. “Jesus, Hannibal. Were you ever thinking about giving me a choice?”

Hannibal freezes with the unpleasant realization that he has yet again miscalculated—which seems to be an unfortunately regular occurrence in regards to this little ball of light that contains the mind he finds so fascinating. Once again, he has crossed an unforeseen boundary of the force of will contained inside Will Graham.

Reason reminds Hannibal that Will doesn’t _know._ Will doesn’t _understand._ But impatient petulance stares down at this creature and says _know me_ , says _see me,_ says _love me_. He doesn’t want to have to wait for that. But he’s facing the reality that he _must._

Hannibal pushes himself up, seated astride Will’s lap, and tugs Will upright by the tangle of their fingers. He says nothing. Will gasps and clutches at his forearms for balance, for support. It’s the only frisson of comfort, knowing that Will may yet turn the tides again—at least in this moment, he wants Hannibal near.

But Will is changing. Unpredictable. Unknowable. Hannibal knows better than to be optimistic. His voice is flat when he says, “I can still give you the choice, if you desire.”

Will notices. Of course Will notices. It’s the whole reason this situation has come about. Will sees everything, except for what Hannibal wants him to, _needs_ him to. There must be some sort of poetic irony in that, but Hannibal cannot find it funny right now.

“So tell me what choice I’m making,” Will replies. His tone, his anger, are softer now. Not gone, no—but Will’s hands are gentler than they were, and slip up Hannibal’s forearms to his biceps, the backs of his shoulders. It’s a loose embrace, but it _is_ one.

And in return, Hannibal touches his sternum with gentle fingertips. The sigils glow across Will’s chest. The light seeping from his stomach wound and mouth remains violet; with a touch of Hannibal’s hand at each, they fade back to blue. The wounds close.

Will breathes a little easier. The relief stings.

Hannibal breaks eye contact with him. He stares at the place where the purple remnant is just a smudge across Will’s skin and wipes it away with his thumb.

“Hannibal,” Will says. “Tell me.”

The words are pulled from him without hesitation. “I would keep you. Permanently.”

Will huffs; his mouth twitches toward an incredulous, humored smile, and his brow creases with confusion. “Had you not decided that when you _married_ me?”

He rests his hand, still stained with red, against Will’s heart. It is with a bittersweet pang that Hannibal realizes he can’t feel the thrum anymore. That the little details of Will’s humanity are finally starting to fade from the veneer of his soul. “With this, I would bind myself to you. Sustain you. Make you something other than a human soul, something better than a demon.”

He falls silent and contemplates the words. Tests the weight of them within his mind.

“I would mark you as my own, so your significance could never be questioned, doubted, or disobeyed.”

Will sighs through his nose. His lashes flutter and he settles on a look of faint annoyance. “You were going to make me your damn _queen_ without asking, on the same day you decided to tell me that we’ve been married all this time? A little cocksure, don’t you think? Is bridal kidnapping legal in Hell? I want to make a complaint.”

Hannibal huffs a breath of fond amusement at Will’s disregard for his authority. It endears him to Hannibal—but then again, he has always found Will endearing. Fascinating. Infuriating. Challenging. The most desirable thing Hannibal has ever laid his eyes or hands on. “I do not seek to make you Bluebeard’s wife, Will. There is no writing on the wall, no foreseeable end. I don’t wish to keep you prisoner, and I have no plans to be rid of you. I would take you as you are. And if you choose this, you would take me as I am. My cruelties. My state of mind. My persistence in seeing that feral part of you once more, black with blood in the moonlight as you slayed the monsters made from your mind.”  

Hannibal pulls his hand away; a hand print remains, stained over Will’s heart. He stares at it: the beauty of the red against pale skin. The artificial pink flush of Will’s chest, little more than the memory of what he had once been.

Will swallows. He looks up into Hannibal’s face, even as Hannibal’s eyes linger on that mark he’s left behind. He knows Will’s nature lingers just beneath the surface; _when_ it emerges is only a matter of time. He knows this the way he knows that Death is written into his bones, that Famine’s eternal hunger will never cease.

War is written into Will Graham.

Hannibal does not return his gaze until Will touches his cheek, draws him up to meet his eyes. “And if I never let that part of me loose again? Am I to be mounted on hooks and displayed for all to see?”

Hannibal answers with a small, twisted smile. “I can’t promise I will ever stop trying to free you,” he admits. “I wish at least once to share that joy at your side.”

Will huffs. His lips purse; his eyes flash. “Violent delights have violent ends.”

Hannibal places his hand at Will’s forehead. He drags it down his temple, his cheek, his jaw, and smears crimson over Will’s face. It makes the bronze rings within his eyes look that much brighter. “Only for those we take for prey, my dear. There would be no greater predators than us together.”

Will licks his lips. He says nothing at first, but Hannibal is content to wait. Even more content as Will leans in, across the divide between them, and tucks his face into the curve of his neck. Hannibal hums, cradles his nape, smooths his thumb over the short, downy curls at the join of his skull and spine.

Will’s arms slide around Hannibal’s waist. He noses at Hannibal’s throat, though there is no memory of a pulse to be found. If only for a moment, Hannibal considers what it would be like to have that; to be able to provide Will the deeply physical comfort of listening to another’s heartbeat.

Then Will ducks his head; places his forehead against Hannibal’s shoulder, and stares down at the sigils there. It’s a motion tinged with doubt, but before Hannibal can ask, the dam of Will’s tumultuous thoughts collapses and sends them spilling outward, over them both. “What could Death want with a mortal, Hannibal? I—” He shudders out a breath. “At my core, I’m only human. I’m not _like_ you. But you’ve wanted me, and you’ve followed me, and I know from being with you this long you don’t do that to anyone else.”

Hannibal breathes. Holds it. Sighs. Slips his arms around Will’s back, and spreads his palms over Will’s spine. Lower, to his hips. Inward, to Will’s belly, where Hannibal’s knuckles rest against the place where his wound no longer leaks grace.

“You carry within you the embodiment of War.” Hannibal’s lips touch Will’s temple, even as he feels Will stiffen. “And I would make War of you. You would stand at my side as Death, counterpoint to Famine and Pestilence. When the time comes for this world to end, we would ride across the Earth together and set it all aflame.”

Will lifts his head. Hannibal hears him huff out a sigh, a gasp, something in between that and a silent scream. And then Will pulls back, and the bronze flare of his irises are wild.

“You would be my equal,” Hannibal murmurs. “I would see you become so. I’ve been waiting for you since the dawn of time. I would be a fool to let you slip away. So forgive me my trespasses, darling. It was only for fear of seeing you taken from me.”

Will’s arms around him tighten convulsively. If Hannibal could feel pain, he’s certain he would. Will gasps, laughs, pants; it’s an amalgam of sensations that bleed forth onto Hannibal’s skin. All warm. All Will. “You… you’re talking Apocalypse. The _Horsemen,_ Apocalypse?”

“All behold War astride his blood red steed,” Hannibal murmurs. After a moment, a comforting pet down the back of Will’s skull and the path of his neck, he draws back. Looks into his eyes. Touches Will’s cheek with worshipful fingers, and knows his own expression is lax and soft with how badly he _wants_. “And I beside you.”

Will’s lashes flutter with a swift series of blinks. His lips part, pink tongue darting out to wet them. “Upon a pale horse.”

Hannibal wants to taste that mouth. Instead, he nods, and Will closes his eyes.

“And the others? Pestilence? Famine?”

Hannibal’s hand falls to Will’s throat, knuckles resting against his Adam’s apple. “Pestilence does not yet live. Famine… she rides elsewhere. Always moving, never still.”

“What about us? Wouldn’t we have to do that, too?” Will asks; Hannibal smiles faintly at the word _we._ Will’s glance about can best be described as nostalgic, and thick with the anticipation of loneliness. “What about this place?”

“Time moves differently here. We could stay as long as we pleased, like this; walk the world at our leisure. Where War goes, Death surely follows.” Hannibal’s lip press together, then part. Despite telling himself that it is instinct to stay near Will and not weakness, his fiercely independent mind rebels against any admission of need. But—“I would be content to do the same.”

A shuddering sigh. A gasp. Hannibal’s fingers spread across Will’s throat to feel it from the source. “This is blatant manipulation,” Will sighs. Even so, he tips his head back, allows more room for Hannibal’s grip. “There’s never been a war that didn’t take lives.”

“If you have no taste for it, I certainly have enough for both of us,” Hannibal replies. Will opens his eyes to squint at him with clear disbelief and derision, and Hannibal relents. “But yes… it would be expected. I _do_ expect you might even enjoy it.”

Will shakes off the hand at his throat. He drops his head against Hannibal’s shoulder with a solid _thunk_ and an irritated huff. “You can’t make me a goddamn _Horseman of the Apocalypse_ without talking to me, Hannibal.”

Hannibal hums, gently amused that Will would assume there is _anything_ he would not do to keep him. He smiles instead of arguing, small and twisted. “Death is fickle, my dear. Perhaps if I enrage you sufficiently, you will go on the warpath on your own.”

“That’s no way to build a relationship,” Will murmurs. He nips at Hannibal’s throat, and for a moment, Hannibal is still with the shock of it.

Then his hands flatten across Will’s back, his fevered flesh, War-hot versus Death-chilled. His nails curl, bite into Will’s skin, but he doesn’t draw blood. “We are natural complements, Will. We need not fight if you don’t desire it.”

“You’re forcing me to fight,” Will growls. He sets his teeth to Hannibal’s shoulder, a clear call and response for the marks on his back; pale crescent moon fingernail imprints that were never worth more than the idea of an injury. It’s the thought that counts. “You’re forcing my hand, here, _again._ You want me to want the things _you_ want for me.”

Hannibal is silent for a moment. Irritated. He threads his fingers into Will’s hair and gives a gentle tug. “I want you with me always. Whatever form that takes, Will—as enemies bound by immortal hatred and resentment, or lovers sharing passion in all things until the end of time. Until we _create_ the end of time.”

Will’s face grows hot against his skin. He shakes. And when he pulls back, Hannibal realizes he is flushed. He shifts restlessly, licks his lips, and Hannibal is so sorely tempted to end this conversation, take Will’s mouth with his own and damn the consequences. Will interrupts him before he can make the conscious decision to do so. “And what after that?”

“We start something new,” Hannibal says. His heated eyes are locked on Will’s face, and his voice drops. It’s quiet. Weighted with significance and desire. “Together, always.”

Will’s lips press into a firm, hard line. His eyes drop to Hannibal’s chest, spine bowing beneath his hands as he relaxes into the kind touch. “Judgement Day, is it nearby?”

“It may be millennia yet. Perhaps more.”

“So I would have time.” Will’s swallow is audible. When he looks up again, his expression is open, broken, raw. Sharp-edged and wanting, and simultaneously dyed with dread. But he offers a flicker of a smile, and Hannibal feels a prickle of hope. It’s a human concept. It’s beneath him. He’s cast off that very word before, and yet it’s the only word for what he’s feeling—keen anticipation and anxious want. “To become… what you see in me.”

“I will aid you in your Becoming,” Hannibal breathes. “As soon or as far off as you like. But the change, Will—I would wish to make it soon. To preserve you as you are, before Hell makes a monster of you.”

Will grimaces. His nose wrinkles. Mutters, “Tasteless.”

Hannibal smooths his palms down Will’s back just to hear him sigh. The way he presses back into them is unexpected and delightful “Indeed.”

Will’s lashes dip. He glances down at the sigils. “And these?”

“Mark you as my equal,” Hannibal says, and touches each with care and reverence. “Declares what you are. Makes eternal your being, your soul. And ties you to me forever.”

“And _you_ to _me._ ”

Hannibal exhales softly. Nods in affirmation.

Will closes his eyes. The pull between his brows is almost pained, even as he leans closer. He touches his lips to Hannibal’s throat, his absence of a pulse. Then his jaw. Drags upward, a rough nuzzle, and rubs his cheek against Hannibal’s. It’s unrefined. Instinctual. Not so unlike an animal might scent-mark their mate—and that empty, throbbing place within his chest that keenly knows Will’s absence starts to hurt less, until it doesn’t hurt at all.

Will’s hands slip up Hannibal’s spine, the nape of his neck, and tangle in his hair. Tugs gently, to hear Hannibal’s responding rumble. “Will—”

All at once, he is wrenched down. Will pulls him into a rough kiss, bites his lip open again. The surprise of it highlights the sting. The pleasure. The heady knowledge that Will is already strong enough to wound him, even in such a small way. The taste of Hannibal’s power floods their mouths, metallic; redder than blood as it stains their teeth.

“Do it,” Will moans against his tongue. “Do it.”

Triumph is not a strong enough word. But as Will commands, Hannibal does.

He draws upon the power bestowed on him by the ages, gifted to him with his creation at the birth of the universe. The sigils sink into Will’s skin and light him up from the inside out. He is vibrant purple as they mix, as they combine, their power pooling as Will’s eyes go wide, his mouth silent but open. His head drops back into Hannibal’s waiting hands.

Hannibal pushes Will down flat and holds him there, drinks in the change with fascinated eyes, the very same expression he uses to observe Renaissance paintings; when he hears the most beautiful overtures of symphonies. He watches Will’s spine arch and his mouth part on a moan, the curl of his fingers and toes as those symbols glow from within him. They brighten to orange, shining like stars, like flickering street lamps—and then bronze, like chariots, the helmets of the Greeks.

Will Graham is memorialized as War is immortalized. Here he lies, here he has died, keening in Death’s bed. He has become something new. Something strong. Something that glows with power realized and boundless radiance.

Hannibal cages him in, hovers over his body, but keeps that distance and waits until it’s over. He hardly moves at all until Will is panting and whining softly with the change, his skin sparking with sensation. His lashes flutter restlessly; his chest heaves with breath, though now more than ever, he has no need to breathe. The blue is gone from his eyes, replaced by bronze—but like Hannibal, once his newfound immortality settles within him, he will be able to tuck that signifier away at his discretion. And now that he is awoken, Hannibal can gladly anticipate the return of striking, roiling blue.

But for now, he treasures nothing less than what he has right now. He watches with wonder as _Will_ watches _him_ with wonder; he reaches up to touch Hannibal’s chest, and his touch feels like fire, a blaze from the sun. Hannibal hums softly at the sensation. Savors it. Considers it. Decides that, yes, he likes that. But he likes everything about Will, even the worst of him.

Will shakes with his laughter as he tips his head back and his eyes finally slip closed, as his spine finally goes lax, and the metamorphosis is done. Shifts, arches, hums in satisfied response. “So are we counting the last twenty years, or are we calling this our wedding night?”

Hannibal smiles. It grows into a grin, unbidden.

_Will._

Whatever this sensation is, he thinks it might be called joy. That place in his chest is alight, but it does not hurt. Instead, it feels like he could burst from the relief. Hannibal closes the distance between their bodies, bears Will down against the mattress and settles into the welcoming spread of his legs, the valley created by his thighs. It is comfort embodied, and Will is _home._

“Dear Will,” he murmurs. “I would not undo the last two decades with you.”

Will’s eyes flash. His lips tip with a lazy, predatory smile that exposes the points of his teeth. “Then I guess we have a lot of catching up to do.”

Hannibal’s sigh of response is deeply satisfied. He could not be more pleased with the turn this day has taken; it’s relief. Ecstatic joy, knowing he is no longer alone. So Hannibal nods. Smooths one hand up Will’s side, then rakes his nails over Will’s skin. Will hisses, but does not cry out; looks down curiously, and his expression softens into understanding—for beneath his flesh is flowing metal the color of fire and starlight, and the wounds heal instantaneously.

Hannibal lets out a long, slow breath, and smiles when Will’s palm covers the back of his hand. Hannibal brings it to his mouth; brushes his lips against the inside of Will’s wrist. “Would you like to start now?”

Will surges up with new, fearsome strength, and puts Hannibal firmly on his back; straddles him with brutal efficiency and laces their fingers together. Counterpoint to Hannibal’s helpless bark of laughter, he smiles, wide and triumphant. “You first.”

 

* * *

 

The dull red light permeates the castle and paints Will in broad strokes of warm colors, tangled in draping sheets, hair dark and wild. He is a classic, stunning figure of beauty, nearly Baroque in the image he presents to Hannibal’s starving gaze.

Will’s fingers trail through the hair on Hannibal’s chest; lingers over the place that would normally hold the thrum of a beating heart. He nudges closer, tucks himself under Hannibal’s arm, rests his cheek against his shoulder.

Hannibal turns onto his side; his arm remains outstretched and pillowed beneath Will’s head. His free hand settles into the dip of Will’s bare waist. “What is it?”

Will blinks slowly. He glances up at Hannibal with something that might almost be considered hesitance. “What I saw today, on the Racks—what you wanted from me. Torture. It’s not…”

Will’s expression twists with reluctant distaste. Hannibal tells himself he’s not disappointed. He rubs his thumb over the crest of Will’s hip, a physical comfort. Grounding. In the grand scheme of eternity, they have forever for Will to change his mind. “That’s quite alright.”

“No it’s not.” Will huffs through his nose; turns onto his back, and tugs Hannibal with him. He hums satisfaction beneath the heavy, comforting weight. Not rejection, then; Hannibal comforts himself with that. “It’s just—”

Hannibal has no desire to argue. The sensation of anticipating Will’s disapproval is unsettling, and he exhales hard. Opens his mouth—

“—there’s no _challenge_ in it, Hannibal. Stand there with a knife and cut them open while they’re tied down and screaming. It’s…” Will’s nose wrinkles. “It’s just _animal cruelty_. It’s not like hunting, where they at least have a fraction of a chance to fight back. It’s _boring._ ”

The words leave him at once. He is rendered silent. Speechless.

Will stares up at him, a stubborn set to his jaw, a glint in his eyes. His palms rove restlessly over Hannibal’s sides, down and up again, hips to ribs. After some time of the thoughts trying to right themselves in Hannibal’s mind, Will interrupts. Impatiently demands, “Well?”

Hannibal licks his lips. “I’ll admit you’ve caught me off-guard.”

That, at least, seems to surprise Will, too. “What?”

“I couldn’t understand your refusal,” Hannibal replies. “You had seen me hunt. You had helped me select our prey. You had lured them. It seemed hypocritical for you to not participate. But your protest was not about the violence, but… the manner in which it was executed?”

Will’s lips part in silent horror. His brows draw together. “You thought I was refusing to torture Dolarhyde because I didn’t want to _hurt_ him? Hannibal.” Will huffs, and his jaw clicks with it; reaches up to cup Hannibal’s cheeks. “I already killed him. He’s already dead. Continuing to take him apart after it’s done is pointless to me.”

Hannibal blinks slowly as he stares down at Will, and turns into his gentle hold. He presses his lips against Will’s palm with a new wave of understanding. “I see.”

And he does.

Will watches him with careful consideration. Tugs him back, and makes sure their eyes connect. He soaks in the sight of Hannibal, attention flickering rapidly as he searches the depths of Hannibal’s gaze. Then, with a weighted sigh, the lines around his eyes soften and fade, tinged with a distant melancholy. “You thought I was rejecting you.”

Hannibal allows himself to be drawn down, for Will to fit their lips together and lap at the seam of his mouth. Hannibal doesn’t deny him; he doesn’t deny Will anything. He parts with a rumble from deep in his chest, and hums his satisfaction at the feeling of Will’s tongue tracing his teeth, licking at his own. This is anything but rejection; it’s a peace offering, an apology. One Hannibal accepts without hesitation or restraint.

When they break apart, it’s not for need of breath, but so Hannibal can press softer kisses to the corner of Will’s mouth, his cheek, the hinge of his jaw. Symbols of his forgiveness. Understanding. “My domain is the dead. Yours is the living. What we share is where they intersect.”

Will smiles. It’s relieved. It’s fierce. _“Yes.”_

“And you would prefer hunting on the surface to punishment in Hell.”

Will blinks slowly. That smile grows smaller, but remains genuine. “Yes.”

But there is something else. Hannibal can see it. It strikes him with a suddenness that he does not enjoy, but is borne from their understanding of one another. “You want to return there.”

Will breaks their eye contact. He opens his mouth, and says nothing. His tongue touches his lips, wets them pink and slick, chasing the taste Hannibal left behind. He closes them without a word, but his actions are words enough.

“You want to stay there.”

“It’s my home,” Will murmurs. “And this is yours. And I like it here. I’m comfortable. I know I’m welcome.” He huffs a laugh, and his eyes glitter with fond amusement, sunshine on the water. “I like your dogs.”

A quiet, murmured, exasperated, _“Will.”_

Will cups his cheeks. Touches their foreheads together. Rolls them onto their sides and sidles close. “I can’t live here, Hannibal. You’ve made me a haven here, but I can’t stay swaddled in your influence. I don’t know a whole lot about what I’m doing. But I know War has no place among the dead.”

Hannibal cannot refute him; Will’s not wrong. But the reality of it is… unpleasant, at best. “We’ve only just been brought together. Now you want to leave.”

“You don’t belong _just_ here, either,” Will replies, gentle in the face of Hannibal’s keen disappointment. He tilts his head; his lashes brush Hannibal’s cheeks. “You know that. You _know_ you’ll go back to the surface. You would never go up there if some part of you didn’t get tired of this, too. You’re a sadist, Hannibal, but you’re a smart one. You love a challenge.”

“None of them were challenging before you.”

It comes out sounding distinctly petulant. Will smiles. “I know. And if I’m up there, you’ll have a reason to visit me.”

Hannibal’s lips press into a tight line at the thought of being without Will’s company for the first time in a generation; millions have lived and died in that time, and Will would see the era of their companionship change. See it end. “Where would you go?” He spears Will with a dark, unhappy frown. “Your wife is surely an old woman by now.”

“My—” Will’s eyes narrow as he absorbs the words. Widen as he comprehends them, and light from behind with indignation, with insult. “Are you serious? All _this_ and you’re still—”

A rough, agitated sound of frustration escapes him. Will pushes at Hannibal’s chest and tries to roll out of his arms. Tries, but Hannibal snags him around the waist and cages Will in, which only seems to make him wilder.

“No, Hannibal, I won’t be going back to _my wife._ I _had_ thought to make a place for myself and my husband.” He bares his teeth. “But if his attitude keeps up, I might reconsider.”

The flare of something he does not dignify as _jealousy_ dies a swift, violent death at the sound of the words _my husband._

Hannibal’s palm spreads over his back, a silent soothe; slips forward, over the ridges of his ribs and abdominal muscles, and reaches for his hands. Brings them to his mouth. Watches Will’s anger melt as he presses his lips to Will’s knuckles.

“Don’t reconsider,” Hannibal murmurs. Kisses the insides of his wrists. “Make your place for us. You no longer need me to guide you. I’m simply mourning the loss of your constant company.”

Will’s mollified; Hannibal can see it in his face. But he huffs his lingering displeasure regardless, and says, “Well, quit your mourning.” He nudges closer, almost rough about it as he elbows his way into Hannibal’s space. Headbutts Hannibal’s shoulder to make him turn onto his back, and crawls onto his chest. Curls their bodies together; shifts until every part of them is touching, nestled in wild sheets with wild hair and wild eyes, swiftly closing.

Will’s exhausted. Rightfully so; Hannibal expects that until he is used to the change, he will need to rest often. He’s not leaving now. Not today, nor likely even tomorrow. He will go no sooner than he is ready, not a moment before and not a moment after.

Hannibal will simply endeavor to be ready to let him go.

For the moment, though, he clutches Will close and enjoys this, until—

“Hannibal?”

He cracks open his eyes; Will is hesitant, soft-eyed and soft-mouthed as he stares back. Hesitant. Wanting.  It should concern him—how strongly he wants to give Will whatever _he_ wants. “Yes, Will?”

“Can I…?” Will rolls his lower lip between his teeth and threads his fingers through Hannibal’s chest hair, palm drifting up his sternum—

—and rests over the place where, if he were human, his heart would be.

Hannibal brushes Will’s stubborn curls away from his brow and offers a slow, fond smile. Tangles their hands together in a reassuring grip. “Of course, darling.”

The change comes easily to Will; he loses his physical form and claims the shape of his soul with practice and ease. But what used to be a multifaceted azure gem is now something different—a blazing ember, a burning coal. It’s a miniature star that sinks into Hannibal’s chest, warms him from within, fills the cosmic facsimile of his ribs. It’s the flicker of a flame within an antiquated cage of iron and glass, casting its influence backward through time and space, illuminating the hallowed eve of a man meeting a stranger on a park bench.

Not being able to hold Will is not a loss, for this is something different. Existential. Spiritual.

Within himself, Hannibal feels Will’s exhaustion. His contentment.

Hannibal brings his knees to his chest; wraps his arms around them. He protects Will within the sum of himself, vast and all-consuming. Focuses everything he is on his beloved. Fills the place Will rests with the fondness and affection he feels, the possessiveness and desire and violence that makes up the love Hannibal holds for him.

Will thrums like a beating heart. He’s happy. And sharing that happiness with him is the closest Hannibal has ever come to feeling truly alive.

For the first time in an eternity, he allows himself to rest. For one suspended second in the universe, War and Death are at peace.

Hannibal closes his eyes, and all is light.

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art of “Devil's Due” by maydei](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16682107) by [kishafisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishafisha/pseuds/kishafisha)




End file.
